In  the  Current 


BY 


WILLIAM  BULLOCK 


NEW  YORK 

WILLIAM  RICKEY  &  COMPANY 
1911 


Copyright,   1911,  by 

WILLIAM  RICKEY  &  COMPANY 


Registered  at  Stationers^  Hall,  London 
(All  Rights  Reserved) 


Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


PBKSS   OF  WILLIAM   G.    HEWITT,  61-67   NAVY    ST.,    BROOKLYN,    N.    Y. 


IN   THE  CURRENT 


IN  THE  CURRENT 


CHAPTER  I 

SOMETIMES  I  look  back  upon  the  days  of  my  rebellion, 
and  as  I  pass  them  in  review  I  laugh  a  little  and  cry  a 
little.  Not  that  the  tears  mean  sorrow  or  remorse  or  re- 
pining, or  any  spiritless  thing  like  that,  but  simply 
that  my  eyes  grow  red  as  any  woman's  eyes  grow 
red  when  she  happens  on  a  long-lost,  half-forgotten 
doll  of  her  childhood.  On  these  occasions  it  pleases 
me  to  imagine  I  am  romantically  inclined,  as  I  am 
sure  every  woman  should  be.  Still,  again,  when  I 
cease  my  laughter  and  dry  my  tears  the  feeling 
steals  over  me  that  I  am  hopelessly  practical.  Ah,  disil- 
lusioning experience!  What  a  world  it  would  be  for  us 
heart-trembling  women  if  experience  did  not  rob  us  of  all 
or  nearly  all  our  blessed  heritage  of  sentiment !  And  yet, 
contrary  creature  that  I  am,  I  would  not — no,  not  for  all 
the  world  itself — give  up  one  tittle  of  all  I  have  learned 
since  I  was  a  reckless,  headstrong,  know-nothing  girl 
two  years  ago. 

Two  years!  How  long  is  that?  Is  it  a  lifetime  or  a 
day  ?  I  don't  know ;  I  cannot  even  pretend  to  answer  for 
myself,  and  how  then  shall  I  answer  for  you?  I  suppose 
the  mere  period  of  six  years  signifies  nothing.  It  might 


2  IN  THE  CURRENT 

as  well  be  six  years  or  twelve  years  or  twenty.  I  re- 
member I  used  to  measure  by  the  years — thirty  years,  one 
gray  hair ;  forty  years,  two  gray  hairs ;  fifty,  all  of  three ; 
and  sixty — oh,  I  shuddered  at  the  thought!  But  never 
mind;  I  am  not  bothered  with  such  dreams  to-day — and 
I  am  only  twenty-one. 

Goodness,  what  a  sage  person  I  have  become !  I  wonder 
if  there  is  another  woman  in  the  world  so  wise  or  so 
foolish  as  I?  A  riddle  of  a  question;  that's  how  I  have 
found  everything.  I  am  such  a  queer  individual  that  I 
keep  a  little  globe  on  the  corner  of  my  dressing-table,  and 
every  day  when  I  revolve  it  on  its  few  inches  of  wire 
pedestal  I  say:  Riddles,  riddles  everywhere. 

I  wonder  also,  now  as  I  set  this  down,  if  you  will  laugh 
in  derision  or  scoff  at  me.  Please  don't.  Although  I 
assure  myself  I  have  learned  so  much,  I  am  still  very 
sensitive.  And  by  reason  of  my  knowledge  I  do  not 
want  to  change.  I  dislike  people  who  lack  sensitiveness  ; 
more,  I  have  an  aversion  toward  them  and  shun  them. 
I  believe  that  sensitive  women  make  the  best  wives.  It 
casts  them  in  such  contrast  with  their  husbands,  for  men 
to  me  are  so  hard  and  untouchable  in  the  nerves  that 
frequently  I  cannot  forgive  them  for  being — just  men.  Of 
course,  you  will  smile  at  the  deftness  with  which  I  in- 
sinuate compliment  to  myself;  still  I  don't  dread  your 
merriment,  because  I  can  share  in  it.  If  I  have  not  natural 
appreciation  of  humor,  a  good  substitute  for  it  has  been 
pounded  into  my  little  head.  Experience  again !  Can  we 
never  rid  ourselves  of  the  thing?  I'm  afraid  not — but 
come,  I  fear  I  weary  you.  With  my  talk  of  experience,  I 
am  hinting  at  the  end  of  my  story,  and  you  very  well  know 
that  the  richest  enjoyment  waits  on  the  brave  reader  who 
resists  the  temptation  to  turn  the  last  pages  first,  to  dis- 
cover in  ill-season  what  happens  to  the  heroine. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  3 

Did  I  say  heroine  ?  I  didn't  mean  it,  at  least,  not  in  my 
case,  for  I  never  could  discern  anything  of  a  heroic  na- 
ture in  my  foolish  self.  Anyway,  I  am  opposed  both  to 
heroes  and  heroines.  I  think  so  much  depends  upon  cir- 
cumstances that  I  insist  a  hero  or  a  heroine  always  is  made 
by  accident.  I  can  sit  this  minute  with  my  eyes  closed 
and  picture  myself  a  heroine  had  I  been  born  amid 
different  surroundings.  That's  it.  Children  are  such 
contrary  mortals !  An  irrepressible  little  sinner  of  a  baby 
will  choose  the  most  pious  of  parents,  and  often  and  often 
it  is  the  other  way  around.  Were  I  in  a  position  to  make 
full  confession  probably  you  would  be  shocked  to  hear  I 
was  an  incorrigible  from  the  start,  nothwithstanding  the 
fact  my  father  wore  one  of  those  soft,  pancaky  black  hats 
so  becoming  to  country  rectors.  Perhaps,  had  I  known 
my  mother  I  should  have  been  different — a  perfect  little 
lady,  in  truth.  It  is  a  decided  disadvantage,  I  am  sure,  for 
a  baby,  a  girl  baby  particularly,  to  be  left  without  a 
mother,  because  wise  as  country  rectors  undoubtedly  are 
they  don't  know  everything.  I  am  so  sure  of  that  I  make 
free  to  emphasize  it ;  yes,  emphasize  it  without  one  word 
of  qualification.  Long  ago  whenever  the  mischievous 
spirit  in  me  asserted  itself  it  was  the  favorite  admonition 
of  my  father  that  mother  died  when  I  was  three  days  old, 
and  that  I  should  be  very,  very  good  so  that  I  might  meet 
her  in  heaven.  And  I  remember  once  I  asked :  "Papa,  do 
all  mothers  go  to  heaven  ?"  and  when  he  answered  "Yes," 
I  said :  "When  I  grow  up  I'll  be  a  mother  and  that  lets  me 
do  as  I  please  now,  doesn't  it,  papa  ?"  I  always  was  quaint 
in  argument. 

I  will  not  bother  you  with  the  details  I  know  of  my 
childhood  and  early  girlhood.  They  are  dull,  drab, 
monotonous  details.  It  is  my  desire  that  you  share  with 
me  the  acquaintance  of  a  girl  19  years  old;  a  girl  who 


4  IN  THE  CURRENT 

imagined  herself  much  older,  which  is  a  mistake,  I  have 
found,  only  made  by  the  very  young,  especially  the  very 
young  of  my  own  dear  sex.  I  invite  you  to  go  on  a 
journey  with  me,  and  you  accept.  Very  well,  off  we  go. 
From  North  and  South,  from  East  and  West  we  transport 
ourselves  to  a  knoll — a  knoll  that  lacks  the  size  and  dignity 
to  be  called  a  hill — on  the  Long  Island  coast,  where  the 
Atlantic  when  angry  rolls  as  if  threatening  to  overwhelm 
the  land. 

Here  we  are,  then,  you  and  I,  and  I  fancy  as  you  look 
at  me  you  read  the  whole  story  of  my  old-time  loneliness 
and  discontent.  It  makes  me  deeply  reflective  to  come 
here  now.  But  stay — we  are  not  in  the  present.  We  are 
back  in  a  summer  afternoon  two  years  ago,  one  of  those 
fairest  of  days  that  always  appealed  to  me  as  a  solace  for 
the  fate  that  held  me  in  that  slow,  uninteresting  country 
spot.  I  mark  your  surprise.  You  are  silent,  yet  with  your 
eyes  you  question  me  how  man  or  woman  could  languish 
here  in  this  place  with  Nature's  hand  resting  free  over 
land  and  sea.  True,  and  I  ask  you :  What  if  this  were  all 
you  knew?  What  if  this  half-moon  of  tree-tops  and  fields 
and  sand,  and  this  half-moon  of  water — all  encompassed 
by  the  horizon  of  the  knoll  where  we  sit,  meant  the  whole 
world  to  you?  What  then?  What  then,  if  the  spirits  of 
restless  forefathers  stirred  in  your  breast?  What  if  the 
little  you  knew  filled  you  with  a  longing  to  break  through 
that  horizon  line,  to  stamp  your  foot  on  forbidden 
ground?  Ah,  I  may  have  been  a  silly  young  thing,  still 
— still,  as  I  sit  here  this  moment  at  my  little  mahogany 
desk  and  meditate  on  it  all,  I  believe  to  the  contrary. 

Did  I  make  a  slip  and  say  mahogany  desk?  I  thought 
we  were  on  a  knoll.  Of  course  we  are,  and  now  I  have  a 
request  to  make  of  you.  I  want  you  to  leave  that  knoll- 
top  ;  to  retire  down  the  land  side  a  few  paces,  and  conceal 


IN  THE  CURRENT  5 

yourself  there  and  peep  at  the  girl  sitting  above,  with  her 
knees  caught  in  her  arms  and  looking  far  out  to  sea.  One 
other  request :  May  I  crouch  beside  you  behind  that  patch 
of  wispy  scrub  ?  You  protest.  You  say :  "Why,  you  are 
the  girl  up  there."  And  I  reply :  "Oh}  no ;  I'm  not.  She's 
only  19,  and  I  am  21."  You  make  room  for  me,  and  I 
crouch  beside  you.  I  murmur :  "Thanks ;  I  thought  you'd 
understand.  Now  we'll  shadow  Frizzie's  footsteps  until 
she  catches  up  with  me."  I  crouch  still  lower,  for  I  have 
a  dread  Frizzie  may  cast  reproachful  eyes  in  my  direc- 
tion, and  I  repeat  to  myself  in  secret :  Catches  up  with  me. 
What  a  thought ! 


CHAPTER  II 

"FRIZZIE,"  I  asked  myself,  "why  does  your  father  seek 
to  have  you  marry  against  your  will  ?" 

I  was  silent  at  the  question.  For  a  few  moments  I  sat 
tense  and  motionless,  then  I  threw  a  defiant  laugh  to  the 
wind.  Marry  me  off  ?  Marry  me  off  ?  Wait  and  see.  It 
takes  two  to  make  a  wedding ! 

My  mood  changed,  and  I  felt  very  lonely  sitting  there. 
The  great  trouble  was  I  had  been  left  too  much  to  myself; 
instead  of  loneliness  taking  a  form  of  occasional  relaxa- 
tion, it  had  become  a  depressing  habit.  Still,  I  was  not 
discouraged.  I  did  not  grieve  hopelessly.  Rather,  I 
smiled  on  the  future. 

It  took  no  effort  for  me  to  be  optimistic.  Optimism 
was  a  large  part  of  my  nature.  I  went  to  a  certain  point 
in  depression,  then  dispelled  gloom  by  laughing  at  it.  So 
although  I  was  lonely  on  the  knoll  that  day,  I  was  not  an 
object  of  commiseration.  Pity  was  wasted  on  a  person 
of  my  disposition.  Melancholy  struck  hard  at  the  start, 
but  it  was  evaporated  quickly  by  my  light-heartedness, 
like  the  ocean  fog  before  the  morning  sun. 

I  blamed  myself  for  delay  in  asserting  my  will.  My 
wedding  dress  was  finished;  Mrs.  Clark  was  to  bring  it 
that  afternoon  from  Covey.  In  one  short  week  I  was  to 
be  married.  The  guests  had  been  bidden;  Norman  had 
made  the  last  arrangement  for  our  honeymoon.  We  were 
to  go  to  Niagara  Falls,  to  the  Thousand  Islands,  and  to  a 
lake  in  Canada.  We  were  to  sail  down  the  St.  Lawrence 


IN  THE  CURRENT  7 

to  Quebec,  and  from  Quebec  we  were  to  sail  to  New 
York,  to  spend  a  whole  week  there.  It  was  an  itinerary 
promising  wonders  to  a  girl  such  as  I.  It  would  be  one 
flight  away  from  my  prison.  It  was  a  journey  glorious 
to  contemplate,  and  what,  then,  was  the  reason  of  my 
growing  spirit  of  discontent?  I  did  not  know,  unless  it 
was  I  wished  to  go  alone.  But  that  was  simply,  utterly, 
impossible.  Then  perhaps  it  was  because  I  did  not  love 
Norman  as  much  as  I  had  confessed  to  him. 

Love  ?  Love  ?  I  turned  the  word  over  and  over  in  my 
mind.  What  did  I  know  ?  Only  yesterday  my  father  had 
told  me  love  was  the  ruling  impulse  in  the  hearts  of 
maidens  young  and  happy  like  to  myself.  Did  father 
know  ?  That  was  the  question,  not  for  him  but  for  me  to 
answer.  A  month  before  I  had  no  doubt.  Then  I  waited 
in  joyous  anticipation  for  Norman's  coming ;  I  missed  him 
every  hour  he  was  away.  Only  a  month — only  four  weeks 
ago — it  was  my  delight  to  lead  Norman  to  this  knoll,  and 
to  talk  with  him  about  how  happy  we  should  be.  But  I 
counted  up  now,  and  to  my  surprise  found  that  ten  days 
had  passed  since  I  had  guided  him  in  this  direction,  still 
he  had  been  over  to  see  me  every  day.  Once  he  had 
shared  this  knoll  with  me ;  now  I  jealously  reserved  it  to 
myself.  I  was  just  as  I  was  before  father  made  such  a 
fuss  about  bringing  Norman  to  the  house,  as  if  Norman 
and  I  had  not  played  together  as  children.  I  was  just  as 
I  was  before  Norman's  father — that  funny  old  man — and 
Norman's  mother — that  middle-aged  autocrat — came 
ostensibly  for  an  afternoon  call  and  stopped  to  dinner. 

I  had  been  blind.  I  did  not  at  first  realize  the  meaning 
of  it.  I  did  not  comprehend  that  conversation  about  the 
friends  my  mother  and  Norman's  mother  had  been 
through  their  girlhood.  It  pleased  me  to  credit  the  story 
when  I  first  heard  it,  but  I  have  grown  to  think  better  of 


8  IN  THE  CURRENT 

my  mother.  That  horrid  Mrs.  Clark !  Did  she  ever  think 
a  girl  had  a  heart  of  her  own  ?  Did  she  ever  think  a  girl 
should  be  consulted  about  such  a  trifling  thing  as  her 
marriage? 

It  was  one  evening  after  father  and  Mr.  Clark  and 
Norman  had  left  the  table  to  smoke  on  the  veranda  that 
Mrs.  Clark  revealed  herself.  She  began  by  asking  me  to 
pour  for  her  another  cup  of  coffee,  although  five  minutes 
before  she  had  lectured  me  against  coffee-drinking.  She 
took  the  last  bit  of  cheese,  asked  me  to  pass  the  crackers, 
then  opened  up  on  me. 

"You  and  Norman  should  be  very  happy,"  she  said, 
with  an  attempt  at  a  gracious  smile. 

"Happy,  Mrs.  Clark !"  I  exclaimed. 

"When  you  are  married,  child,"  she  said,  continuing  as 
if  I  had  not  interrupted  her. 

"And  are  we  going  to  be  married?"  I  asked  foolishly 
enough,  and  unable  to  check  my  surprise. 

"Why,  of  course,  my  dear,  Frizzie,"  she  said,  trying  to 
soothe  me.  "Can  it  be  possible  Norman  has  not  spoken 
to  you?" 

"He  has  not  spoken,"  I  replied  with  all  the  reproving 
emphasis  I  could  command,  and  just  to  show  I  was  not 
deceived  I  added:  "I  thought,  Mrs.  Clark,  it  was  the 
custom  for  a  young  man  to  speak  the  first  word  to  the 
young  woman  he  wishes  to  be  his  wife." 

She  exasperated  me  by  taking  time  to  nibble  at  the 
cracker  and  cheese,  but  I  contained  my  feelings.  Her 
defense,  when  it  came,  was  clumsy,  just  as  was  every- 
thing she  did. 

"Of  course,  it  is  usual  for  the  young  man  to  speak  first, 
Frizzie,  my  dear,  but  you  understand  I  thought  Norman 
already  had  spoken.  It  was  thoughtless  and  careless  of 
me  not  to  ask  him.  Please  excuse  me,  Frizzie.  I've  been 


IN  THE  CURRENT  9 

prompted  only  by  a  mother's  interest  in  Norman,  and, 
may  I  say,  by  my  interest  in  you,  my  child.  You  are  to 
be  my  daughter,  you  know,  or  at  least  I  have  always 
wished  it — ever  since  you  and  Norman  have  been  children. 
It's  your  father's  wish  also,  and  I  never,  never  should 
have  spoken,  Frizzie,  had  your  mother  been  alive  to  speak 
for  me.  I  do  so  wish  you  and  Norman  to  marry.  There 
are  so  many  reasons  why  you  should,  and  they're  all  so 
natural.  Our  families,  have  been  friendly  so  many,  many 
years — since  long  before  you  were  born,  my  child." 

She  sighed  as  if  in  flood  of  recollection,  and  settled  back 
heavily  in  her  chair.  I  was  indignant  and  about  to  make 
vigorous  reply  when  Norman  entered  the  room  and  dis- 
armed me.  He  looked  first  at  his  mother,  then  at  me,  and 
read  it  all  in  our  faces. 

"Mother,  you've  been  talking  to  Frizzie,"  he  said  rather 
sharply,  and  by  her  sudden  flush  and  nervous  movement 
Mrs.  Clark  betrayed  herself.  "I  thought  there  was  a  pur- 
pose behind  the  sudden  interest  of  father  and  Dr.  Peabody 
in  the  veranda  and  their  anxiety  to  have  me  smoke  and 
talk  with  them.  It's  something  new  for  them  to  care  for 
my  conversation.  I  don't  like  it,  mother ;  I  don't  like  it," 
Norman  ended,  his  voice  rising  in  earnest  rebuke. 

I  am  afraid  we  women  are  frail  and  wavering,  else  how 
could  it  have  taken  me  so  long  to  discover  what  really  lay 
in  my  heart?  Mrs.  Clark  sniffled  and  whimpered,  and 
muttered  a  little  about  undutiful  sons;  then,  with  her  black 
silk  skirt  rustling  as  it  swept  the  floor,  she  walked  out  with 
an  air  of  injured  innocence.  I  half  suspect  now  it  was 
part  of  her  plot,  because  it  left  Norman  and  me  alone 
with  the  vital  problem  uppermost.  I  said  nothing.  To  be 
candid,  I  could  not  have  spoken  a  word  had  I  wished  it. 
I  was  tongue-tied,  but  I  was  brave,  for  I  put  both  my  el- 
bows firmly  on  the  table  and  pressed  my  palms  hard 


io  IN  THE  CURRENT 

against  my  cheeks.  Some  persons  might  call  that  a  guard 
against  timidity,  but  I  don't.  Norman  was  at  the  opposite 
side  of  the  table.  He  watched  me  in  silence  for  almost  a 
minute.  I  could  see  the  marble  clock  tick  on  the  mantel- 
piece. Then,  still  without  speaking,  he  came  quickly  to 
my  side  and  caught  my  right  wrist  in  his  hand.  I  can  feel 
his  grip  yet.  I  looked  up  at  him  defiantly.  I  wanted  to 
cry  out,  yet  I  did  not. 

"Frizzie,  it  doesn't  matter  what  my  foolish  mother  says 
or  does,"  he  said.  "You'll  marry  me,  won't  you  ?  They've 
all  been  talking  for  the  last  few  weeks,  and  they  think  I 
never  thought  of  it  before.  Don't  believe  that.  If  I  hadn't 
thought  of  it  before  they  spoke  to  me,  I'd  never  say  to  you 
what  I'm  saying  now.  Will  you  marry  me,  Frizzie  ?" 

I  caught  for  breath.  He  stepped  back  and  stood  wait- 
ing. "Do  you  really  and  truly  wish  to  marry  me,  Nor- 
man?" I  asked,  at  length. 

"Really  and  truly,  Frizzie,"  he  replied,  just  like  a  boy. 
"I  can't  live  without  you." 

I  laughed  lightly  at  his  assertion.  It  flattered  me,  yet 
I  felt  it  was  what  every  girl  might  expect.  "Well,  if  you 
wish  it  so  sincerely,  Norman,"  I  replied,  "I  will  marry 
you."  I  said  it  without  the  slightest  difficulty.  Perhaps, 
had  it  come  from  the  very  bottom  of  my  heart  I  should 
have  been  less  confident. 

Norman  gave  an  exclamation  of  pleasure  at  my  words, 
and,  without  the  slightest  hint  of  an  invitation,  snatched 
me  bodily  out  of  my  chair  and  kissed  me.  I  confess  I  did 
not  seriously  object,  although  I  was  covered  with  con- 
fusion. He  put  me  back  quickly  on  my  feet,  and  we  went 
out  on  the  veranda.  Mrs.  Clark  was  waiting,  and,  after 
she  had  ceased  crying  on  my  neck,  father  gave  me  a 
deliberate  kiss  squarely  on  the  lips,  and  Mr.  Clark  kissed 


IN  THE  CURRENT  n 

me  on  the  tips  of  the  fingers,  bowing  the  while  like  a 
knight  of  old. 

It  was  a  novel  experience  for  me  while  it  lasted,  and  I 
cannot  say  I  did  not  enjoy  it.  I  did,  every  moment  of  it. 
We  all  sat  in  the  cane-chairs  in  the  growing  dusk,  and  I 
stole  sly  glances  at  Norman  every  time  his  face  was 
silhouetted  by  a  lighted  match  held  up  to  his  cigar.  Natu- 
rally he  caught  me  at  it,  and  I  suppose  that  was  the  reason 
his  cigar  required  his  attention  so  often  after  that. 

For  more  than  a  month  my  heart  was  lighter  than  a 
bird  on  the  wing.  Then  suspicion  of  myself  entered  in, 
and  drive  it  away  I  could  not.  A  whole  night  I  tossed  in 
unrest,  and  in  the  morning  arose  firm  in  the  resolution 
I  would  not  marry  him. 

Why?  Sitting  there  on  that  knoll  I  could  not  explain 
to  the  satisfaction  of  myself.  Only  that  when  I  looked  to 
the  future  I  saw  nothing  except  going  on  living, 
living,  living,  exactly  the  same  as  before.  It  might 
even  be  worse.  At  first  Norman  filled  every  long- 
ing in  my  heart.  At  first  I  fancied  we  sat  as 
one  on  the  knoll,  then  slowly  but  steadily  it  began 
to  creep  into  my  mind  we  were  sitting  far  apart. 
A  barrier  rose  between  us.  I  fought  against  the  feeling. 
I  told  myself  it  was  not  genuine,  nor  just.  When  Norman 
turned  his  hand  up  on  the  ground  in  invitation  I  laid  my 
fingers  on  his.  But  the  touch  was  not  the  same.  I 
pinched  him  on  the  arm,  as  if  in  play,  but  in  reality  it  was 
to  assure  myself  he  was  there — the  same  Norman  as  of 
old.  I  would  laugh  at  my  fears,  again  I  would  be  pos- 
sessed by  them.  That  honeymoon !  Yes ;  and  suppose  we 
were  to  extend  our  travels  to  go  around  the  world  ?  We 
should  take  this  cramped  corner  of  Long  Island  with  us, 
and  after  all  the  traveling  we  should  return  home  to  the 
same  cramped  corner  to  settle  down  for  life  in  it !  I  could 


12  IN  THE  CURRENT 

not  marry  Norman,  and  I  prayed  for  strength  for  the 
crisis. 

I  arose  and  stood  silently  gazing  upon  the  Atlantic. 
Never  before  had  I  felt  so  lonely.  Oh,  if  Norman  could 
have  stood  beside  me  and  shared  my  feelings !  Then  all 
would  have  been  light  instead  of  gray !  I  welcomed  the 
breeze  as  it  blew  over  the  water  and  the  sand,  and  cast 
into  folds  the  soft  linen  of  my  dress,  and  stirred  the  hair 
about  my  temples.  Why,  I  asked  myself,  was  the  wind 
free  to  blow  unrestrained  while  I  was  required  to  curb 
the  thoughts  and  desires  that  demanded  the  whole  wide 
world  as  a  domain  for  me  to  live  in?  There  must  be 
instincts  of  which  father  and  Mrs.  Clark  and  Mr.  Clark, 
and,  most  of  all,  Norman,  never  dreamed  at  work  in  my 
breast.  Perhaps  that  was  why  I  came  to  that  knoll  every 
day,  rain  or  shine,  blow  or  calm. 

Sometimes  I  fancied  I  fed  my  nature  on  the  changes  of 
the  sea  and  on  the  different  aspects  of  the  woods,  broken 
by  patches  of  truck-farms  behind  me.  I  loved  the  roar 
of  the  tide  when  it  beat  upon  the  shore.  I  sang  in  delight 
when  Neptune  raised  his  scepter  and  sent  white  chargers 
on  a  race  toward  the  spot  where  I,  too,  sat  on  a  throne. 
My  heart  warmed  when  the  sun  splashed  gold  on  the 
water ;  it  went  cold  when  blackness  rode  in  on  the  wings 
of  a  cloud.  Often  I  pictured  myself  putting  out  from 
land  in  a  seashell  for  a  ship  and  an  ostrich  feather  for  a 
sail,  to  skim  the  seas  in  quest  of  a  magical  realm.  For 
a  time  this  magical  realm  was  for  two  lovers  to  share,  but 
now — but  now  I  had  found  only  one  of  the  lovers  had  the 
imagination  to  travel  there. 


CHAPTER   III 

THE  knoll  I  called  mine  was  like  a  sentinel  set  against 
the  ceaseless  toiling-  of  the  ocean.  Yet  I  believed  the  sea 
made  it.  I  was  certain  that  if  my  eyes  could  cut  like  drills 
straight  down  from  the  crest  where  I  stood  they  would 
uncover  a  great,  round  boulder  at  the  level  of  the  beach. 
Further,  I  was  sure,  the  waves  had  wrapped  the  boulder 
in  layers  and  layers  of  sand  until  an  observatory  was 
raised  for  me.  But  what  lay  beneath  the  boulder?  Ah, 
there  I  was — how  little  I  knew ! 

When  the  moon  was  at  the  full  the  tide  reached  out  for 
my  citadel  with  bold,  ambitious  arms,  but  I  claimed  as  a 
defense  a  wide  ribbon  of  beach,  which  received  the  tide 
on  its  breast  and  threw  it  back  in  foaming  fury  upon  it- 
self. I  was  elated  to  think  all  this  was  wrought  through 
years  and  ages  to  wait  in  readiness  for  me.  I  saw  myself 
as  a  guest  of  Nature ;  it  was  only  when  I  remembered  no 
one  shared  my  sympathy,  my  delight,  that  I  tasted  a  little 
bitterness  in  the  sweet. 

Frequently  I  wished  my  knoll  was  bare  sand  all  around. 
But  up  its  back  vegetation  was  creeping  slowly.  The  path 
I  had  worn  skirted  several  clumps  of  stunted  shrubbery. 
I  had  marked  a  dark  line  through  a  grass-covered  spot. 
Already  I  shrank  from  the  inevitable  day  when  the  shrub- 
bery and  the  grass  would  mount  to  the  top  and  spread 
over  the  face  as  if  bidding  defiance  to  the  sea  which  had 
made  the  invasion  possible.  The  recent  Spring  had  sent 
out  tendrils  as  an  advance  guard  of  Time's  intent.  I  had 

13 


14  IN  THE  CURRENT 

been  tempted  to  snip  these  audacious  intruders,  but  I  had 
restrained  myself  in  humble  respect  for  a  patient  persist- 
ence which  would  mock  my  petty  jealousy  in  the  end. 

But  in  that  hour  I  was  constrained  to  put  such  thoughts 
out  of  mind.  There  was  work  to  do.  So  I  took  to  the 
winding  path,  firm  in  the  resolution  to  face  my  father  and 
tell  him  of  my  decision.  I  felt  like  running  to  him.  I 
knew  he  was  in  his  study,  extracting  a  sermon  from  a 
carefully  selected  text.  I  quickened  my  footsteps  only  to 
check  them  and  go  slower  than  before.  Why  hurry?  I 
had  hours  before  me.  I  went  through  a  neck  of  woods, 
passed  through  a  stile  to  the  road,  and  had  interest  to 
observe  that  dust  had  been  flung  on  the  leaves  to  right 
and  left  by  the  flight  of  many  automobiles.  I  reflected 
that  city  folk  liked  the  country.  I  asked  myself  if  they 
still  would  like  it  were  they  condemned  to  live  and  die 
in  it. 

I  turned  a  corner  and  found  myself  in  front  of  my  home. 
A  heavy  wooden  gate,  swinging  to  both  sides  from  the 
middle,  barred  the  entrance.  I  leaned  across  the  gate  and 
surveyed  the  view  before  me.  The  house  was  severe  in 
the  studied  plainness  of  its  boards  and  shingles  and  its 
two  brick  chimneys.  It  was  a  house  to  indicate  the  humor 
and  habits  of  its  owner.  The  one  relieving  feature  was 
the  wide  veranda,  reached  by  four  low  steps,  and  running 
across  the  blunt  square  front  of  the  two  stories  and  attic. 
The  house  was  forbidding  almost  in  its  fresh  coat  of  dull 
green  paint.  The  general  aspect  of  austerity  was  accen- 
tuated by  the  drab  awnings,  now,  because  the  sun  was 
sinking,  pulled  flat  against  the  upper  half  of  the  windows. 
The  well-kept  driveway  ran  straight  as  an  arrow  from 
the  gate  to  the  veranda  steps,  where  it  reached  out  to  span 
the  house  on  both  sides  and  to  converge  in  the  rear  to  run 
to  the  stable  and  coach-house  hidden  far  back  in  the  trees. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  15 

I  could  not  see  these  low  buildings  from  where  I  stood, 
but  I  had  every  detail  of  their  setting  clearly  in  mind. 

Nothing  ever  changed  there.  It  seemed  as  if  the  house 
had  stood  in  its  clearing  for  ages.  The  lawn,  so  monot- 
onously exact  in  its  four  right  angles,  was  unbroken  by 
a  flower-bed.  The  grass  lay  uniformly  smooth  and  green 
from  the  clipped  edges  of  the  driveway  to  the  vine- 
covered  fence,  backed  close  against  the  wood  on  three 
sides  and  cutting  off  the  road  in  front.  Father  was  very 
proud  of  that  lawn,  and  it  was  just  like  him  to  say  it  was 
an  oasis  that  cheered  his  heart  at  every  homecoming. 

Poor  father!  I  could  not  help  repeating  that  to  myself, 
although  I  realized  it  was  not  proper  in  the  strictest 
parental  sense.  I  loved  my  father ;  I  shall  have  you  un- 
derstand that.  He  was  a  good  and  a  great  man.  There 
was  not  another  in  Suffolk  County  one-half  so  popular 
as  he.  It  was  said  he  was  respected,  even  beloved,  by 
everybody,  and  I  believed  it.  That  he  loved  me  I  had  not 
the  slightest  doubt,  and  why,  then,  did  I  say,  Poor  father! 
I'll  tell  you! 

It  was  because  when  I  thought  of  his  love  I  thought  of 
different  kinds  of  love.  It  was  plain,  even  to  a  young,  in- 
experienced girl  like  myself,  that  all  love  cannot  be  alike. 

There  was  a  vast  difference  between  my  love  and  the 
love  of  my  father.  I  was  so  tender  and  warm  toward 
him ;  he  was  so  precise  and  cold  toward  me !  I  was  con- 
vinced father  was  not  equal  to  a  great  affection.  That 
was  an  odd  conviction  for  a  girl  of  nineteen,  still  I  took  it 
for  fact  without  reasoning  on  it.  It  impressed  me  father 
always  was  impelled  by  a  strict  sense  of  duty.  Oh,  al- 
ways, always  that,  and  never  the  slightest  cause  for  my 
taking  offense  of  any  kind.  Yet  his  attitude  was  irritating. 
I  was  his  daughter,  and  that  seemed  to  be  all-sufficient 
to  him.  He  thought  he  loved  me  as  a  father  should  love, 


1 6  IN  THE  CURRENT 

still  I  was  not  satisfied  with  his  love.  There  was  some- 
thing lacking,  perhaps  something  repelling,  in  it.  There 
were  barriers  between  us,  just  as  there  was  a  barrier  be- 
tween Norman  and  me.  Now  and  then  I  went  to  him  and 
laid  my  head  against  his  breast,  but  ever  and  always  there 
was  a  mysterious  influence  that  held  me  from  making  him 
my  confidant.  Only  a  few  days  before  he  had  asked  me : 
"Why  is  it,  Frizzie,  you  never  confide  in  me?"  And 
truthfully  I  answered :  "I  don't  know,  father." 

From  the  gate  there  I  could  see  him  bent  over  his  flat- 
topped  desk  in  the  study  on  the  second  floor.  His  study 
was  across  the  wide  hall  from  my  room.  He  had  the  same 
view  of  the  sea,  yet  he  never  stood  in  the  window  to  look 
out  except  when  the  wind  whistled  about  the  house  and 
the  waves  broke  in  sullen  roars  on  the  beach.  Then  he 
only  said :  "Pity  the  poor  souls  who  go  down  to  the  sea  in 
ships!"  Pity  them?  I  envied  them. 

A  rusty  hinge  creaked  sharply  as  I  swung  one-half  of 
the  gate  before  me.  At  the  sound,  Nipper  lifted  himself 
from  the  veranda,  and  came  wriggling  in  his  rough  terrier 
coat  down  the  driveway  to  meet  me.  I  laid  a  hand  gently 
on  his  head.  "Hello,  Nipper!"  I  said,  and  he  wriggled 
still  more  briskly.  "No,  begone!"  I  commanded,  and  a 
sudden  look  of  disappointment  showed  in  his  eyes  as  I 
walked  past  him  to  the  house.  Timidity  was  rising 
within  me,  and  to  suppress  it  I  found  it  necessary  to  walk 
quickly  and  firmly. 

Father  heard  me  ascending  the  stairs.  When  I  reached 
the  top  I  saw  him  smiling  through  the  open  door.  I 
smiled  in  return,  although  my  cheeks  felt  bloodless  and 
cold. 

"Come  in  and  sit  beside  me,  Frizzie,"  he  said  cheerily, 
and  I  crossed  the  study  floor  and  took  a  chair  close  to  his 
desk. 


CHAPTER  IV 

I  HAD  recited  a  speech.  I  thought  I  had  it  on  the  tip  of 
my  tongue,  but  I  could  not  call  up  a  word.  I  shifted  un- 
easily in  my  chair,  and  looked  in  abstraction  at  the  floor. 

"You  have  something  to  tell  me,  Frizzie,"  said  my 
father.  "I  can  see  that." 

The  mere  sound  of  his  voice  revived  my  courage.  I 
raised  my  eyes  to  his  gravely  and  laid  my  left  hand  on 
the  corner  of  the  desk. 

"Do  you  remember  once  you  told  me,  father,"  I  said, 
"that  I  should  learn  to  think  for  myself;  that  I  should 
think  and  exercise  independence?" 

"I  remember  it  distinctly,"  he  replied.  "And  I  repeat 
the  injunction.  To  think  and  act  for  oneself  is  the  only 
safe  plan  in  this  world." 

I  was  on  the  point  of  pouring  out  all  that  was  in  my 
heart,  but  his  tone  was  so  quiet  and  deliberate  it  gave  me 
alarm.  He  put  his  pen  on  the  rack  and  sat  watching  me. 
I  let  my  eyes  take  in  the  room. 

What  an  uninviting  place  it  was !  Around  three  sides 
in  oak  shelves  were  books  of  weighty  teaching.  Near  the 
door,  where  father  could  reach  it  as  he  entered,  was  the 
book  he  had  recommended  as  an  introduction  to  all  his 
prized  volumes.  It's  strange  how  the  mind  works.  I  took 
time  at  that  moment  to  recall  an  incident  connected  with 
that  book.  In  a  defiant  mood  once  I  asked  father  what 
selection  a  girl  could  make  from  the  crowded  shelves,  and 
in  all  seriousness  he  handed  me  that  book,  entitled,  "The 

17 


1 8  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Meditations  and  Vows  of  Joseph  Hall."  Ever  after  I 
hated,  yes,  hated,  the  sight  of  those  shelves. 

Why  had  father  denied  me  the  treasures  of  romantic 
fiction  ?  Why  had  he  been  so  short-sighted,  so  foolish,  as 
to  allow  me  to  whet  my  appetite  with  stolen  sweets  ?  He  re- 
ceived a  few  magazines  into  the  house — sedate  magazines 
they  were !  He  had  told  me  repeatedly  the  time  for  novels 
and  such  trash,  as  he  called  it,  was  after  marriage.  But 
was  it?  Once  he  discovered  me  in  tears  over  the  story 
of  a  gallant  cavalier  and  a  pensive  maid,  and  he  caused 
other  tears  to  fall  by  a  lecture  upon  the  sobriety  becoming 
young  womanhood  and  the  benefits  to  be  derived  from 
studious  application  to  his  library. 

That  library!  Hundreds  and  hundreds  of  books,  and 
not  one  telling  of  liquid  eyes  and  golden  tresses  and 
serenades.  What  did  father  intend  me  for?  The  ministry? 

I  almost  laughed  outright  when  I  thought  of  it.  I 
glanced  at  him  and  found  him  observing  me  closely.  I 
permitted  my  gaze  to  wander  to  the  steel  engravings,  in 
their  plain  black  frames,  of  Washington  and  Lincoln,  on 
the  wall  where  father  had  only  to  raise  his  head  from  the 
desk  to  see  them.  Near  the  window,  on  an  ebony  pedestal, 
was  an  alabaster  bust  of  Luther,  a  man  after  father's  own 
heart.  What  was  Luther  to  me?  A  thought  took  hold 
of  me. 

"Norman  likes  this  room,  father?"  I  said. 

"He  likes  it  better  than  any  room  in  the  house,"  he  re- 
plied, with  an  honest  ring  of  pride. 

"I  cannot  understand  why  he  should,"  I  said,  with  a 
slight  shudder. 

"What  is  troubling  you,  Frizzie  ?"  asked  father,  firmly. 
I  had  to  struggle  to  find  voice. 

"I  wished  to  tell  you  yesterday,  father,  but  I  was  not 
entirely  decided,  and  I  lacked  the  courage." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  19 

"But  you  found  the  courage  to-day.  That's  a  hopeful 
sign."  It  impressed  me  how  analytical  he  was.  He  nipped 
his  gold  glasses  off  his  nose  and  laid  them  across  the  bold 
title  of  his  sermon.  I  leaned  over  and  read :  "Faith,  Hope 
and  Charity — the  best  of  these  is  Charity."  I  looked  up. 

"That's  a  funny  title  for  a  sermon  by  you,"  I  said  im- 
pulsively. 

"I  won't  discuss  that  with  you,  Frizzie,"  said  father  in 
a  voice  that  chilled  me,  and  at  the  same  time  roused  me 
to  hostility. 

"Then  you  will  discuss  Norman,"  I  cried  petulantly. 

"I  thought  it  was  Norman,"  said  father,  as  if  commun- 
ing with  himself,  and  I  felt  ashamed  for  my  rudeness. 
"What  is  about  him  now?"  he  asked,  addressing  himself 
directly  to  me. 

I  moved  forward  and  placed  both  hands  on  his  knees. 

"I  don't  wish  to  marry  him,  father,"  I  said. 

He  pushed  back  his  chair,  arose  hastily,  and  walked  to 
the  opposite  side  of  the  desk  and  stood  there  white  with 
anger. 

"So  this  is  the  reason  for  your  serious  face  these  last 
few  days  ?  Do  you  think  this  is  the  time  to  tell  me  this — 
with  the  wedding  one  week  off?  You  cannot  go  back 
now.  You  must  marry  Norman." 

I  felt  an  impulse  to  cry,  but  I  bit  my  lip  to  better  effect 
than  that.  "Have  I  not  the  privilege  to  think  or  speak  ?" 
I  asked. 

"You  have  that  privilege,  as  everybody  has,"  replied 
father,  and  before  he  could  utter  another  word  I  ex- 
claimed : 

"Then  I  demand  my  right,  father." 

I  knew  it  was  a  peremptory  challenge  not  becoming  a 
girl  to  a  parent,  yet  what  was  I  to  do  ?  I  was  excited.  I 
restrained  myself  with  difficulty,  and  I  believe  my  earnest- 


20  IN  THE  CURRENT 

ness  impressed  father,  for  he  checked  himself  when  about 
to  reply  and  waited  silently.  I  clenched  my  hands  in 
my  lap. 

"You  told  me  that  every  girl  should  be  careful  whom 
she  married!"  I  said.  "You  told  me  that,  because  you 
said  marriage  was  a  serious  contract,  that  it  was  for  all 
time,  and  that  if  it  did  not  bring  happiness  it  brought 
misery." 

"I  told  you  that,  Frizzie,"  said  father  briefly. 

"Well  then,  father,"  I  went  on,  "I  have  thought  it  all 
over  and  I  have  decided  in  my  heart  marriage  would 
mean  misery  for  Norman  and  me."  I  was  unable  to  say 
more.  Words  left  me.  I  was  confused,  and,  to  my  sur- 
prise, all  the  sternness  faded  from  father's  face.  He 
smiled  and  even  laughed.  He  came  beside  my  chair  and 
pressed  my  hair  with  his  hand. 

"My  dear  Frizzie,  my  dear  daughter,"  he  said.  "You 
must  rid  yourself  of  all  such  foolish  thoughts.  Tut,  tut, 
Frizzie !  That's  no  way  to  repay  your  father.  How  can 
you  complain?" 

I  was  moved  to  heated  impulse. 

"It's  because  I'm  a  girl,  I  suppose,  father,  and  can't 
have  my  own  way,"  I  exclaimed. 

"Girls!  Girls!"  said  father  good-naturedly.  "Why, 
Frizzie,  you  girls  have  all  the  advantages.  Boys  must  go 
a-hunting,  you  know.  As  for  the  girls — well,  they  just 
sit  at  home  and  wait  for  the  quarry  to  come  to  them.  And 
we,  poor  fellows,  are  the  quarry,  and  the  girls  just  take 
us  on  the  wing !  Isn't  that  so,  Frizzie  ?" 

I  had  never  dreamed  father  could  talk  so  lightly.  It 
was  a  new  revelation  of  him  to  me.  I  was  not  pleased. 
His  diplomatic  hand  was  too  apparent. 

"I  have  not  been  away  from  Covey  a  day,  father,"  I 
said,  "and  what  quarry,  as  you  say,  has  come  near  me?" 


IN  THE  CURRENT  21 

The  question  contained  so  much  truth  that  father  was 
impressed.  I  was  famished  for  companionship  in  that 
remote,  listless  country  spot.  I  was  without  the  associa- 
tions of  school,  for  father  had  practised  economy  in  in- 
structing me  out  of  the  fulness  of  his  secular  and  religious 
learning.  He  had  held  me  aloof  from  the  girls  of  the 
farms  and  the  village  of  Covey.  The  few  girls  of  my 
station  he  favored  had  gone  to  schools  in  the  city;  they 
were  friends  of  other  days.  And  why  talk  of  sitting  and 
waiting  for  quarry  when  Norman  was  the  only  youth 
father  had  welcomed  under  his  roof? 

I  looked  at  father  and  thought  he  felt  guilty,  yet  preju- 
dice prevailed.  What  could  an  innocent,  simple-minded 
girl  know?  Why  should  a  daughter  of  the  proper  and 
pious  Dr.  Peabody  entertain  a  romantic  notion? 

"Every  young  woman  in  Covey  envies  you,"  said  father. 
"Were  I  actuated  only  by  selfish  reasons,  I  should  say  you 
have  a  matrimonial  prize  in  Norman.  But  I  have  not 
been  moved  by  any  worldly  feeling  like  that.  He  is  the 
best  husband  for  you  in  every  particular,  Frizzie,  and 
trust  in  my  discernment  and  experience." 

Something  like  a  lump  came  into  my  throat,  and  I  arose 
and  with  my  hands  clasped  behind  my  back  went  to  the 
window.  I  looked  out  across  the  lawn  and  over  the 
spread  of  trees  to  the  Atlantic  swinging  in  a  silvery 
crescent.  Father  did  not  move  from  the  desk.  I  knew 
he  was  watching  me  intently  and  waiting  in  patience. 
His  patience  always  nettled  me.  I  thought  of  that  as  I 
lingered  in  a  survey  of  the  scene  spreading  gloriously  be- 
fore me.  I  turned  away  from  the  window,  and  walked 
close  to  him. 

"Does  your  heart  ever  beat  faster  when  you  look  at  the 
ocean,  father  ?"  I  asked  quietly. 

"Of  course,  not,"  he  replied. 


22  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Mine  does,"  I  said. 

"That's  because  you  are  romantic,"  said  my  father, 
"and  romance  has  no  place  in  the  life  of  to-day.  It  be- 
longs to  another  and  an  irresponsible  time." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  I  asserted,  and  my  voice  softened  as 
my  thought  traveled  afar.  "The  sea  fills  me  with  a  spirit 
of  freedom — oh,  so  much  freedom!  It  lies  calm  and  it 
rolls  and  tosses — it  does  just  what  it  wills.  I  am  jealous 
of  the  sea  and  of  the  wind  that  blows  over  it." 

"You  must  grow  beyond  these  fancies,  Frizzie,"  said 
father,  but  I  detected  a  little  sympathy  in  his  tone. 

"If  I  ever  do  I'll  grow  smaller,"  I  replied  with  con- 
viction. "You  never  sat  on  the  beach,  father,  and  won- 
dered what  lay  away  off  behind  the  rim  of  the  ocean, 
where  your  eyes  cannot  follow  ?" 

"I  am  glad  to  say  I  have  never  given  rein  to  my  imag- 
ination to  that  illogical  extent,"  said  my  father. 

"Well,  I  have,"  I  responded  in  elation.  "And  I've  often 
turned  from  the  sea  and  looked  at  these  woods  and 
thought  that  their  dwarfed  oaks  and  starved  pines  meant 
just  living  here — growing  up  a  little,  waiting  a  little,  and 
then  dying!" 

I  saw  pain  in  father's  eyes,  and  disappointment  and 
alarm  were  in  his  voice  as  he  exclaimed:  "Why,  you're 
not  a  child !" 

"Oh,  no,  not  for  ever  so  many  years,"  I  replied  in 
simple  earnestness. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying,"  protested 
father. 

"Do  you  know  any  more  than  I?"  I  asked  innocently. 

"I  won't  answer  that,"  he  said.  "You  must  cast  aside 
all  these  imaginative  follies." 

"How  can  I  cast  them  aside?"  I  asked.  "How  can  I 
be  anything  but  what  I  am — myself  ?" 


IN  THE  CURRENT  23 

"You  never  needed  my  advice  more  than  you  do  now," 
said  father. 

"Suppose  your  advice  was  wrong,  father?  Suppose  I 
did  as  you  told  me  and  married  Norman  and  was  un- 
happy— what  would  you  do  then  ?" 

"You  won't  be  unhappy,"  he  said.  "You  and  Norman 
will  not  have  a  worry.  He's  independent,  and  you  your- 
self will  have  the  savings  of  my  lifetime.  I  have  hoarded 
for  you  all  the  pennies  that  have  dribbled  into  my  pocket 
from  this  penurious  parish.  It  isn't  a  proud  confession, 
but  you  are  my  daughter.  You  are  everything  to  me.  Do 
you  hear,  Frizzie  ?  Norman's  parents  and  I  talked  of  this 
marriage  when  you  and  Norman  were  playing  as  chil- 
dren. Your  mother  would  have  wished  it.  You  encour- 
aged it  until  now,  and  that's  the  greatest  reason." 

"I  should  be  happy  to  please  you  all,"  I  said.  Father 
took  the  words  for  a  surrender.  He  came  to  me  with  his 
hands  held  out. 

"Good,  good !"  he  said.  "I  knew  you  would  be  sensible 
in  the  end,  Frizzie.  I  always  saw  you  had  a  warm  spot  in 
your  heart  for  Norman." 

"A  warm  spot  in  my  heart  for  Norman  is  only  a  begin- 
ning," I  said.  "You  know  my  whole  heart  should  be 
warm — should  glow  with  love  for  him." 

"That's  what  the  sentimentalists  say,"  rebuked  father, 
and  in  an  impatient  voice  he  asked,  "What  is  it  you  desire, 
Frizzie  ?" 

"Father !"  I  cried.  "I  want  a  castle  with  turrets  pierc- 
ing the  sky,  with  soldiers  on  the  battlements  in  silver 
armor !" 

Father  smiled.  "You  should  have  lived  in  the  time  of 
the  Crusades,"  was  all  he  said. 

"I  don't  mean  a  real  castle  ?"  I  explained. 

"What  then  ?"  asked  father  as  quietly  as  before. 


24  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"I  don't  know,"  I  said  truthfully.  "It's  only  that  I  want 
something — something  that's  not  here  in  Covey." 

Father's  face  darkened.  "I  will  not  have  another  word 
of  this  silly  talk,"  he  said  sternly.  "You  had  ample  time 
to  think.  You  must  realize  it's  too  late  to  alter  your  mind. 
Besides,  if  you  reasoned  you  would  not  wish  to  alter  it." 

I  burst  forth  in  anger.  "How  was  I  to  think,  father? 
How  was  I  to  realize  anything  when  you  never  told  me 
anything?  You  watched  over  me,  guarded  me  on  every 
side,  you  kept  me  in  a  cage,  and  now  you  have  another 
cage  ready  for  me!  You've  made  Covey  a  hated  prison 
to  me,  and  you'd  make  it  my  prison  always.  You  told  me 
there  was  not  a  cloud  in  the  sky,  but  there  are  clouds, 
father,  clouds  for  you  and  clouds  for  me,  and  your  clouds 
never  touch  mine  and  mine  never  touch  yours!  You 
thought  you  were  nourishing  my  mind,  but  you  starved 
it.  You  denied  me  the  truth.  But  do  this :  tell  me  now 
that  Covey  here  around  us  is  all  the  world  and  I'll  go  out 
and  marry  Norman  for  you  to-morrow.  I'll  marry  him 
this  hour  if  you  tell  me.  But,  father,  I'll  never  marry  him 
till  I  know  from  you  or  learn  for  myself.  And  you  won't 
tell  me,  because  you  can't.  You  can't  father — I  know  that 
much.  You  see  nothing  in  the  sea,  and  Norman  told  me 
he  saw  a  lot  of  fishes!  If  you  were  a  girl,  would  you 
marry  a  man  like  that  ?" 

"I  will  telephone  to  Norman  to  come  over,"  said  father, 
without  a  word  for  my  outburst.  I  was  flushed  and 
nervous,  but  was  thrilled  with  a  sense  of  triumph  at 
having  spoken  so  bravely;  and  I  did  not  interfere  when 
father  lifted  the  telephone  from  his  desk.  I  was  quickened 
to  action  again  by  his  conversation. 

"There's  no  need  to  hurry,  Norman,"  I  heard  him  say. 
"Anytime  this  evening.  .  .  .  Frizzie  and  I  only  wish 


IN  THE  CURRENT  25 

to  speak  to  you  about  a  little  thing.  .  .  .  We'll  tell 
you  when  you  come." 

I  could  endure  it  no  longer.  I  snatched  the  tele- 
phone from  father's  hands  and  backed  away  from  him. 

"It's  not  a  little  thing — it's  all — everything!"  I  poured 
into  the  instrument.  "You  mustn't  come."  I  could  hear 
Norman  protesting.  I  waited  an  instant.  "Why  do  I  say 
that  ?"  I  asked.  "I  will  tell  you,  Norman :  it's  because  I 
will  never  marry  you.  Never,  never,  never,  Norman !" 

I  did  not  give  him  a  chance  to  reply.  I  caught  the 
receiver  in  its  hook.  I  placed  the  telephone  firmly  upon 
the  desk  and  looked  straight  at  father. 

"If  Norman  comes  to  this  house,"  I  said,  "I  will  tell 
him  I  will  never  speak  to  him,  never  see  him  again !" 


CHAPTER   V 

WOULD  you  believe  I  spent  an  hour  before  the  mirror 
preparing  for  Norman?  I  actually  did,  and,  further,  I 
regretted  I  could  not  take  more  time  because  of  dinner. 
When  I  went  to  my  room  I  lifted  with  a  snap  a  photo- 
graph of  Norman,  and  flung  it  face  down  upon  my 
dressing-table.  Then  I  dropped  into  a  wicker  chair  which 
I  had  rescued  from  palpable  signs  of  old  age  with  an 
elaborate  ribbon  dressing,  and  debated  whether  I  should 
array  myself. 

I  make  no  apology  for  my  decision.  In  fact,  I  feel  an 
apology  is  not  necessary.  I  did  not  have  a  qualm  about  it. 
It  did  not  suggest  itself  to  me  that  father  might  interpret 
wrongly.  All  I  did  was  to  follow  impulse,  or  was  it  in- 
stinct ?  When  I  tried  to  reason  against  it,  I  found  myself 
without  an  argument.  I  reflected  I  should  look  my  pret- 
tiest for  a  rural  vestryman  humored  as  a  guest  at  our 
table;  it  was  imperative  I  should  extend  the  same  honor 
to  Norman,  the  more  so  as  he  was  coming  to  receive  his 
dismissal. 

Screened  from  sight  by  the  curtains  I  saw  Norman 
drive  up  in  his  buggy.  Father  went  down  to  meet  him, 
and  they  clasped  hands  warmly.  Norman  caught  a  rein 
around  the  gatepost,  and  as  he  walked  beside  father  up 
the  driveway  I  was  moved  to  break  a  rose  from  a  vase, 
filled  by  Norman's  token  only  that  morning,  and  bury  the 
stem  in  my  hair.  I  lifted  the  photograph  and  glanced  at  it, 
and  promptly  dropped  it  face  down  again. 

I  tiptoed  into  the  hall,  and  the  voices  of  Norman  and 

.26 


IN  THE  CURRENT  27 

father  reached  me  from  the  parlor.  I  started  to  descend 
the  stairs,  and  had  gone  just  two  steps  when  a  familiar 
sharp  treble  shot  in  through  the  open  window  behind  me. 
I  hastened  back,  and,  as  I  expected,  saw  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Clark  in  their  antiquated  open  carriage,  with  the  handy- 
man-about-the-house  turned  coachman  for  the  occasion, 
and  presenting  a  ridiculous  figure  in  the  faded  grandeur 
of  a  pepper-colored  livery  which  had  been  handed  down 
more  than  once  in  its  checkered  career. 

I  returned  to  my  room  disturbed  and  angry.  I  could 
manage  father  and  Norman ;  Mr.  Clark  did  not  count.  It 
was  otherwise  with  Mrs.  Clark.  I  still  feared  her.  She 
was  so  coolly  assertive.  She  took  the  leadership  as  so 
inalienably  her  own.  I  disliked  her.  I  confess  frankly, 
I  hated  her. 

It  was  not  necessary  for  me  to  go  near  the  curtains  now. 
I  knew  what  was  happening;  it  had  happened  so  often, 
and  always  without  variation !  The  carriage  rolled  slowly 
up  the  driveway.  Father  and  Norman  were  on  the 
veranda  steps.  Mr.  Clark  alighted  with  groans  for  his 
gout.  Mrs.  Clark  sat  back  grandly  and  loftily  until  all 
three  men  gathered  to  assist  her  out.  At  last  on  the 
veranda,  she  bestowed  smiles  on  father  and  Norman,  and 
spared  frowns  and  tart  words  for  the  husband  she  made 
her  slave.  There  was  the  same  old  bustling  entrance,  the 
same  commotion  in  the  hall,  the  same  retreat  of  voices  as 
Mrs.  Clark  moved  into  the  parlor,  with  the  men  in  her 
train. 

I  was  ready  for  tears,  but  I  stamped  my  foot  and  forced 
a  laugh.  Tears  ?  Not  for  that  domineering  woman.  Why 
should  I  fear  her  ?  I  was  before  the  looking-glass.  I  sur- 
veyed myself  with  satisfaction  from  my  white  slippers  to 
the  rose  in  my  hair.  I  felt  conscious  of  my  power.  It  was 
for  Mrs.  Clark  to  fear  me.! 


28  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Youth  has  its  advantages.  Mrs.  Clark  was  fifty  if  she 
was  a  day.  She  weighed  a  full  two  hundred  pounds.  She 
wore  her  black  silks  and  her  poke  bonnets  of  necessity. 
Try  to  imagine  her  in  my  fluffy  white  summer  dress !  I 
had  not  stretch  of  mind  enough  for  that.  Ill-temper  was 
the  only  weapon  she  had  left.  I  was  sure  of  it.  It  was 
her  hold  on  dominion.  "The  old  autocrat !"  I  half-hissed 
in  my  resentment  and  bitterness.  "I'll  clip  her  claws !" 

Why  had  she  intruded  at  such  a  time  ?  It  was  a  secret 
with  herself.  Mrs.  Clark  was  not  a  confiding  nature.  She 
was  exactly  the  reverse.  Perhaps  she  had  seen  Norman 
turn  from  the  telephone  surprised  and  dejected,  and 
suspected  trouble.  It  was  a  theory  in  keeping  with  her 
suspicious  disposition — still  I  was  glad  she  had  come. 

I  had  brought  about  a  new  situation.  I  remembered  a 
phrase  in  father's  conservative  newspaper.  I  was  playing 
a  "leading  role."  I  liked  that  phrase,  aye,  I  loved  it.  I 
was  of  importance  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  I  had 
asserted  myself.  I  was  doing  my  own  thinking ;  I  would 
act  for  myself ! 

I  was  elated.  I  danced  about  the  room.  I  clapped  my 
hands  in  rejoicing.  I  stood  Norman's  photograph  up. 
What  did  I  care?  I  could  look  at  it  without  a  quiver. 
Mrs.  Clark?  Oh,  ho!  Out  of  the  room  and  down  the 
stairs  I  went,  running  and  wishing  for  wings  to  carry  me 
faster.  I  burst  into  the  parlor.  I  ran  with  speed  un- 
checked to  the  mahogany  table,  stopped  there  abruptly, 
and  cried  out: 

"You  are  all  here — you  father  and  Norman  and  Mr. 
Clark  and  Mrs.  Clark — and  you  all  must  know :  I  won't 
marry  Norman." 

Mrs.  Clark  did  not  disappoint  me.  She  provided  the 
sensation  I  wished.  She  was  pressed  into  an  armchair. 
She  caught  for  breath.  Her  red  cheeks  blazed  and  seemed 


IN  THE   CURRENT  29 

about  to  burst.  She  tried  to  rise,  but  could  not  gather 
strength.  She  sank  back  in  the  chair,  and  feebly  gasped, 
"My  son!" 

"That's  it  exactly,  Mrs.  Clark,"  I  said,  stepping  aggres- 
sively toward  her.  "It's  all  your  son.  It's  all  your  son 
and  all  yourself,  without  a  generous  thought  for  me. 
You'll  have  to  find  somebody  else  for  Norman  to  marry." 

She  rose  at  me  in  fury.  "You  ungrateful,  spiteful, 
mean  little  pussy  cat !"  she  stormed.  "I  could  whip  you. 
You  won't  marry  Norman  ?  I'm  glad  you  won't.  He 's 
well  rid  of  you.  A  fine,  obedient  wife  you'd  make !" 

I  laughed  boldly  at  her.  "That's  it  again,  Mrs  Clark," 
I  said,  "an  obedient  wife !" 

"You  won't  marry  Norman  with  every  preparation 
made  ?"  she  cried  as  if  suddenly  realizing  the  full  import 
of  my  ultimatum.  "With  flowers  ordered  for  the  house 
and  for  the  church,  and  with  your  trousseau  ready  ?  You'd 
make  us  all  the  laughing  stock  of  Suffolk  County !  You'd 
have  my  son  and  me  written  up  in  the  papers!  You'd 
disgrace  us  just  for  the  sake  of  your  mean,  nasty  temper ! 
It's  easy  to  see  you've  been  without  a  mother's  hand 
over  you." 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Clark,"  I  said  in  quiet  sarcasm,  "and  you  as 
a  mother  never  asked  me  if  I  happened  to  love  your  son." 

"Why  should  I  ask  you  or  any  girl?"  she  retorted. 
"Who  wouldn't  love  my  son?  And,  besides,  there's  alto- 
gether too  much  nonsense  about  love  in  these  days.  I 
didn't  marry  Mr.  Clark  for  love,  and  look  how  happy 
we've  been.  You  can't  dress  and  eat  and  have  your 
servants  and  your  horses  on  love.  It's  all  very  consoling 
to  people  who  haven't  a  dollar  to  marry  for  love,  but 
families  in  our  position  must  be  business-like." 

Father  came  between  us.  "Now,  now,  please,  no  more 
of  this,"  he  said  in  a  placating  tone. 


30  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"I  won't  listen,  Charles,"  said  Mrs.  Clark.  "Your 
daughter  is  undutiful." 

"You  must  listen,  Mrs.  Clark/'  said  father  firmly. 
"Now,  both  of  you  sit  down." 

Mrs.  Clark  seemed  inclined  to  protest  further,  but  she 
cowed  before  the  stern  look  of  father  and  settled  herself 
in  the  armchair.  I  was  at  a  loss  what  to  do,  and  I  felt  a 
dread  of  the  situation  slipping  away  from  me.  Father  put 
a  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  I  sank  to  a  seat.  As  usual, 
father  was  very  deliberate,  and  walked  slowly  around  the 
table  to  a  chair,  from  which  he  took  an  open  newspaper 
and  folded  it  before  sitting  down.  I  half  turned  my  head 
and  saw  Norman  on  the  piano-stool.  He  was  very  pale 
and  he  looked  at  me  without  the  slightest  sign  of  recogni- 
tion. I  glanced  around  for  Mr.  Clark  and  found  him  in 
a  corner  squirming  in  apprehension  in  a  Morris  chair. 
Father  drew  himself  up,  and  his  face  was  as  grave  as 
when  he  prepared  himself  to  deliver  a  sermon. 

"It  is  plain  to  me  there  is  only  one  thing  to  do  at 
present,"  he  said,  "and  that  is,  to  take  time  to  search  our 
hearts  before  arriving  at  a  decision.  It  is  seldom  we  do 
not  regret  action  taken  on  impulse.  Perhaps  we  have  not 
given  enough  thought  to  my  daughter.  Perhaps  her  pride 
has  been  hurt  by  us  taking  so  much  for  granted ;  perhaps 
when  she  has  had  time  for  reflection  she  will  come  to  the 
conclusion  we  so  earnestly  desire." 

"I  have  decided  for  all  time/'  I  said. 

"I  wish  for  nothing  but  your  happiness,  Frizzie,"  said 
father.  "That  is  my  prayer.  I  believe  you  would  find 
happiness  as  Norman's  wife.  I  would  not  ask  you  to  do 
anything  against  your  will,  but  I  do  ask  you  to  reason  a 
little." 

"Girls  never  reason,"  snapped  Mrs.  Clark,  tossing  her 
handkerchief  angrily  in  her  lap. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  31 

"Maria?  Maria?"  ventured  Mr.  Clark  in  gentle  reproof. 

"Sir !"  returned  Mrs.  Clark,  and  the  little  man  subsided 
instantly. 

"I  cannot  see  why  this  slight  trouble  should  not  be 
smoothed  out  to  the  satisfaction  of  everybody,"  continued 
father  in  the  same  even  voice.  "I  propose  this :  let 
Frizzie  have  until  to-morrow.  Then  she  and  I  will  drive 
over  to  The  Beeches." 

"To  talk  as  we  are  talking  now,  father?"  I  asked. 

"More  amicably  I  hope,  Frizzie,"  replied  father,  trying 
further  to  calm  me  with  a  smile. 

Norman  came  to  the  table  and  I  was  glad.  He  had 
disappointed  me.  I  had  looked  for  him  to  show  emotion. 
Deep  down  in  my  heart  there  may  have  been  a  longing 
for  him  to  throw  himself  at  my  feet.  That  would  have 
been  flattering  to  me,  but,  of  course,  it  would  have  meant 
the  loss  of  his  last  chance. 

"Now  we'll  hear  what  my  son's  got  to  say,"  said  Mrs. 
Clark.  Norman  looked  straight  at  her. 

"Mother,  it  is  not  for  you  to  decide,"  he  said,  and  the 
woman  gasped.  "It  is  not  for  Dr.  Peabody  to  decide.  It 
is  not  for  father  nor  for  me  to  think  for  Frizzie,  or  to  tell 
her  what  to  do.  Frizzie  must  and  shall  decide  for  herself." 

The  blood  rushed  to  my  cheeks.  I  felt  like  screaming, 
or  swooning.  It  was  a  manly  speech,  and  I  had  not  ex- 
pected it.  The  room  seemed  to  be  in  a  whirl  before  my 
eyes.  It  was  Norman,  after  all,  who  was  master.  The 
humiliation  was  mine.  Faintly  I  heard  Mr.  Clark  say,  "I 
admire  you,  my  boy."  More  distinctly  I  heard  Mrs.  Clark 
storming  at  the  devoted  old  man  for  that  honest  bravery 
on  his  part.  I  saw  father  arise  and  stand  across  the  table 
from  the  chair  where  I  sat.  His  face  was  colorless  and 
drawn.  Where  was  I  ?  What  was  I  doing  ?  What  had  I 
said  ?  What  had  Norman  said  ?  Yes,  yes !  He  had  said 


32  IN  THE  CURRENT 

it  was  all  for  me  to  decide.  He  also  wished  to  withdraw. 
He  also  was  without  love.  Like  his  mother,  he  had  been 
engaged  in  a  game  of  deceit.  I  was  unable  to  control 
myself.  I  sprang  to  my  feet,  and  faced  him  in  wrath. 

"And  you  would  have  married  me  and  when  it  would 
have  been  too  late  you  would  have  let  it  be  known  that 
you  never  have  loved  me  ?"  I  cried. 

"You  are  wrong,  Frizzie,"  he  said. 

"You  were  like  your  mother/'  I  went  on.  "You  were 
ready  to  sacrifice  me.  You  were  ready  to  marry  me  to 
please  your  mother  and  my  father,  and  not  to  please 
yourself." 

"Stop !"  commanded  father. 

"I  won't  stop,"  I  exclaimed,  turning  to  him.  "I'm  filled 
with  loathing  for  the  whole  business.  That's  what  Mrs. 
Clark  called  it — business !"  I  stamped  my  foot.  "I  hate 
you  all.  I  despise  you  all,"  I  called,  and  could  say  no 
more.  I  hung  my  head.  I  was  becoming  ashamed.  I 
know  I  had  gone  too  far.  One  kind  word  from  father  or 
Norman,  or  even  from  Mrs.  Clark,  and  I  should  have 
spoken  a  full  apology.  But  the  word  did  not  come.  There 
was  only  silence — silence  that  oppressed  me,  that  crushed 
the  penitence  rising  in  my  breast.  I  could  not  understand 
why  Mrs.  Clark  held  her  tongue.  I  grew  confused  in 
conflicting  feelings,  and  stood  still. 

Presently  I  became  conscious  of  Mr.  Clark  rising  from 
the  chair  in  the  corner.  The  dear  old  man !  There  was 
kindness  in  him,  and  courage  when  the  occasion  de- 
manded. For  once  he  closed  his  ears  to  his  wife's  austere, 
"Benjamin!"  I  felt  him  close  behind  me,  and  I  turned. 
Would  you  believe  it,  there  were  tears  in  his  eyes.  Truly, 
there  were;  and  in  the  tenderest  manner  possible  be 
touched  my  arm,  and  said : 


IN  THE  CURRENT  33 

"If  I  had  a  daughter,  Frizzie,  I  should  wish  her  to  be 
just  like  you." 

Before  I  could  reply,  Mrs.  Clark  was  on  her  feet. 

"How  dare  you  say  that !    Your  daughter,  indeed !" 

But  Mr.  Clark  was  not  done.  There  was  a  protest  of 
righteous  indignation  left  in  him. 

"Hang  it  all,  I  said  it,  Maria,"  he  burst  out,  "and  I'll 
repeat  it  if  you  dare  me." 

With  a  show  of  vanity  that  might  easily  be  excused  in 
so  estimable  a  man,  Mr.  Clark  stuck  his  hands  under  his 
coat-tails,  marched  back  to  his  corner,  and  was  seated 
before  his  wife  recovered  from  her  astonishment.  But 
almost  immediately  he  began  to  sink  in  his  chair,  as  if 
from  fear  of  the  results  of  his  temerity.  However,  Mr. 
Clark  could  count  on  my  sympathy  and  support.  He  was 
a  rebel  like  myself. 

"This  dreadful  affair  is  becoming  worse  and  worse," 
moaned  Mrs.  Clark.  "It  will  be  the  death  of  me."  She 
lifted  a  corner  of  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes. 

"Now,  mother,  there  must  be  no  hysteria,"  said  Nor- 
man, and  she  dropped  the  handkerchief  quickly. 

"You're  against  me  too,"  she  wailed.  "My  son !  My 
own  flesh  and  blood !" 

"You  know  I  am  not  against  you,"  replied  Norman. 

"Well,  maybe  we  ought  to  do  what  Dr.  Peabody 
advises.  I  feel  the  need  of  fresh  air.  If  Frizzie  will  only 
promise  she'll  come  over  to-morrow — well,  I'll  say 
nothing  more  to-night."  She  sighed  heavily.  "Might  I 
ask  you  for  my  sake  to  drive  over,  Frizzie.  It  will  not 
do  any  harm,  and  it  may  do  a  lot  of  good." 

"I  cannot  refuse  you  when  you  put  it  like  that,  Mrs. 
Clark,"  I  said,  collected  once  more. 

"It's  very  good  of  you,  child,"  she  responded.  "Oh, 
dear,  dear,  after  all  my  plans!"  She  moved  across  the 


34  IN  THE  CURRENT 

room.  "Come,  Benjamin,  come.  And  you,  Norman, 
come.  Take  my  arm.  We  shall  go."  Norman  stepped 
to  her  side.  She  held  out  her  hand  to  father. 

"Good-by,  Charles.    I  know  this  is  not  your  doing." 

Father  was  very  cordial.  "Don't  worry,  Mrs.  Clark," 
he  said  as  he  grasped  her  hand.  "I  am  sure  it  will  all 
turn  out  for  the  best." 

"I  cannot  leave  the  house  without  parting  from  you, 
Frizzie,"  she  said.  "Come  to  me  and  take  my  hand,  so 
that  we  may  show  there  is  no  ill-will." 

I  went  over,  but  instead  of  taking  her  hand  I  presented 
my  right  cheek  and  held  myself  so  rigid  she  had  to  stand 
on  tiptoes  to  kiss  it.  She  did  not  suspect  my  trick,  and 
Norman  passed  out  with  her  without  a  word  to  me.  Mr. 
Clark  lingered  in  a  grasp  of  my  hand.  Finally,  with  even 
more  than  his  usual  graciousness,  he  touched  his  lips  to 
my  finger-tips.  "God  bless  you,  Frizzie,"  he  said,  and 
followed  Mrs.  Clark  out.  How  was  it,  I  thought,  such  a 
man  should  have  such  a  wife?  Father  also  went  to  the 
veranda.  There  was  a  wait  for  the  carriage,  and  Norman 
returned.  I  was  nervous  and  afraid. 

"Don't  prolong  it,  please,  Norman,"  I  requested. 

"I  won't,  Frizzie,"  he  said.  "Will  you  come  to- 
morrow ?" 

"Certainly,"  I  replied. 

"You  didn't  mean  it  when  you  told  mother  ?" 

"I  did  mean  it,  but  it  might  all  have  been  ended  here." 

"Do  you  think  that  in  your  heart  and  soul  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  I  do  Norman,"  I  replied. 

"Then  you  mustn't  come,  Frizzie.  When  you  feel  that 
way,  you  are  right  about  it,  and  you  needn't  be  uneasy 
about  the  flowers  for  the  church  or  the  house  or  the  in- 
vitations. And  don't  think  of  mother  or  me.  It  will  all 
be  forgotten  in  a  few  days." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  35 

I  was  opposed  to  him,  yet  I  could  not  resist  saying,  "I'll 
come,  Norman."  His  face  became  almost  radiant.  "You 
mean  it,  then  ?"  he  asked,  and  I  repented.  I  was  against 
yielding.  "I  may  come,  and  I  may  not,"  I  said. 

"I  believe  you  love  me,  or  you  would  not  be  so  contra- 
dictory, Frizzie,"  was  his  surprising  assertion,  and  he  left 
me  a  prey  to  dejection. 

From  the  window  I  watched  the  carriage  drive  off,  and 
saw  Norman  in  the  buggy  wave  his  hand  to  father.  I  still 
was  gazing  out,  half  in  abstraction,  when  I  heard  father's 
step  in  the  room. 

"You  have  made  a  nice  mess  of  things,  Frizzie,"  he  said. 

"Do  you  think  so,  father  ?"  I  demanded. 

"Yes ;  I'm  afraid  you  have,"  he  said  coldly,  and  I  was 
all  bitterness  and  anger  again.  I  fairly  raced  to  the  door, 
and  stopped  there  a  moment. 

"I'm  glad  I've  made  a  mess  of  it,"  I  cried  out.  "I'm 
glad  I  made  a  mess  of  it  before  you  and  Mrs.  Clark  had 
time  to  spoil  my  whole  life." 

Before  father  had  time  to  call  I  was  across  the  hall. 
"Frizzie!"  came  after  me  a  second  time,  but  I  did  not 
halt.  I  gathered  speed  up  the  stairs,  ran  into  my  room 
and  banged  the  door  behind  me.  I  snatched  Norman's 
photograph  off  the  dressing-table,  tore  it  in  two,  threw 
wide  my  arms  and  let  the  pieces  fly.  "That  for  him!"  I 
said,  and  dropped  in  exultation  into  my  wicker  chair. 

I  become  quiet  and  thoughtful.  I  recalled  Norman  in 
the  parlor.  He  was  manly  and  handsome.  Yes,  he  was 
handsome !  I  recalled  Mrs.  Clark.  Oh,  Mrs.  Clark !  My 
mood  changed  again,  and  I  leaned  far  back  in  my  chair 
and  laughed. 

Heavens,  what  a  contrary  creature  I  was ! 


CHAPTER   VI 

HAD  any  one  asked  me  why  I  went  to  Clark's  the  next 
day  I  could  not,  try  as  I  might,  have  made  honest  answer. 
Neither  could  I  explain  why  my  father  wished  me  to  go 
there.  He  had  said  he  would  not  strive  against  my  will, 
and  father  never  said  anything  he  did  not  mean.  But  who 
could  know  father?  Were  he  not  so  wholly  onesided  it 
would  be  comparatively  easy  to  comprehend  him. 

Not  infrequently  in  those  days  I  drifted  into  musing  on 
him,  and  always  it  ended  in  my  feeling  nettled  at  myself. 
It  seemed  so  useless  to  approach  father  from  my  view- 
point. It  was  like  trying  to  draw  the  poles  together.  Yet 
just  as  there  must  be  some  sympathy  between  the  poles, 
there  was  a  degree  of  sympathy  between  father  and  me. 
But  our  sympathies  were  remote  and  at  cross-purposes. 
It  took  me  a  long  time  to  discover — but  I  did  discover  it — 
that  father  and  I  were  as  one  in  tenacity  and  downright 
obstinacy.  I  came  to  think,  too,  it  was  knowledge  of  my 
kinship  to  him  in  this  respect  that  led  father  to  oppose  me 
with  such  determination.  Had  I  been  a  boy,  probably  he 
would  have  acted  otherwise,  for  the  plain  truth  was,  father 
believed  the  male  sex  should  have  a  monopoly  of  will- 
power. He  was  an  old-fashioned  man,  whose  idea  of 
happiness,  I  was  sure,  was  a  wistful-eyed,  pensive,  de- 
pendent wife — the  type  of  woman  so  aptly  described  as 
"clinging  vine."  I  was  not  that  kind.  I  was  an  un- 
conscious champion  of  Women's  Rights;  I  was  for 
equality.  I  was  for  absolute  independence,  and  father  did 

36 


IN  THE  CURRENT  37 

not  see  that  I  was  what  my  circumstances  were,  and  a 
reflection  of  himself. 

Had  I  been  a  sighing  little  body  father  would  have  bent 
me  as  he  would  a  straw,  but  all  the  spirit  of  revolt  was 
quickened  in  me  by  his  assumption  of  arbitrary  authority. 
I  was  to  blame,  of  course,  for  my  rebellion,  but  father  was 
to  blame  and  Mrs.  Clark  was  to  blame  and  also  Norman. 
They  had  made  me  know,  for  one  thing,  that  I  had  a 
temper ;  they  taught  me  to  know  I  had  the  courage  of  that 
same  temper. 

Fear  was  not  absent  from  my  heart,  but  I  would  not 
turn  back.  I  would  go  to  Clark's  despite  the  hesitancy 
and  reluctance  within  me.  Father  greeted  me  at  break- 
fast with  more  than  usual  cordiality.  I  expected  argu- 
ment, but  he  did  not  broach  the  momentous  question.  He 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  interested  himself  in  his  news- 
paper. I  rang  for  more  coffee,  and  was  so  deep  in  musing 
that  Mother  Ann  had  come  to  my  side  before  I  became 
aware  of  her  presence. 

I  called  her  Mother  Ann  because  it  pleased  her  no  less 
than  it  pleased  myself.  What  a  good  old  soul  she  was! 
I  was  sure  I  should  have  loved  her  dearly  and  un- 
reservedly had  I  not  given  way  a  little  to  the  prejudice  of 
the  world  toward  those  who  wait  on  it.  Often  I  had  felt 
like  bestowing  my  confidence  on  Mother  Ann.  But  I 
refrained,  because  I  was  something  of  a  hypocrite,  just  as 
you  are,  no  doubt.  Understand  me.  I  have  told  I  was  a 
striver  for  equality,  but  not  for  equality  in  every  direc- 
tion, and  that  is  why  we  women  cannot  in  a  day  gain 
common  footing  with  men.  We  are  on  an  equality  with 
men  in  our  hypocrisy ;  our  demands  do  not  cover  all  social 
grades.  Of  course,  we  assert  they  do,  but  as  a  matter  of 
fact  they  cover  no  more  than  the  particular  grade  of  so- 
ciety to  which  we  women  as  individuals  belong.  That's 


38  IN  THE  CURRENT 

the  great  drawback  to  the  world  as  I  have  found  it.  There 
is  never  a  full  forgetfulness  of  self ;  there  is  never  a  com- 
plete merging  of  all  interests,  of  your  interest  and  of  mine. 

But  I  was  dejected  that  morning,  and  the  feeling  tended 
to  draw  Mother  Ann  and  me  together.  We  were  drawn 
together  in  spite  of  the  reserve  felt  by  me,  and,  I  must 
add,  in  spite  of  the  reserve  felt  by  the  white-haired 
servant.  Mother  Ann  was  proudj  too.  I  have  found  that 
pride  belongs  as  much  to  one  class  as  to  another,  and  I 
regret  it  usually  happens  that  pride  manifests  itself  in  less 
objectional  form  in  workers  than  in  their  masters. 

There  must  have  been  a  pleading  loneliness  in  my 
eyes  when  I  raised  them  to  Mother  Ann,  for  without  a 
moment's  hesitation  she  pressed  my  shoulder  softly  with 
her  hand.  And  I  was  not  in  the  least  ruffled  or  indignant 
or  irritated ;  instead,  a  sense  of  comfort  stole  over  me,  and 
it  was  with  heartfelt  satisfaction  I  permitted  her  firgers 
to  pass  in  a  caress  across  my  brow.  Father  got  up  from 
behind  his  paper  and  passed  out  to  the  veranda. 

"I  know  what  they're  wanting  you  to  do,  Miss  Frizzie," 
she  said,  "and  I'm  telling  you  to  do  what  pleases  yourself 
and  nothing  more." 

"You  do,  Mother  Ann?"  I  questioned  eagerly. 

"That's  just  what  I  do,  Miss  Frizzie,"  she  replied.  "I 
couldn't  hang  around  here  without  picking  up  things.  I 
know  all,  but  I  didn't  have  to  hear  them  talking  last  night, 
with  me  in  the  kitchen  and  the  door  open.  I  could  see  it 
all  in  your  face,  Miss  Frizzie.  Many's  the  girl  I've  seen  the 
same  way,  and  a  sorry  bride  makes  a  sorry  wife.  I'll  tell 
you  something,  if  you  want  to  hear  an  old  woman's  clack." 

"Sit  down  and  tell  me,  Mother  Ann,"  I  said  promptly. 
She  seated  herself  in  father's  chair,  with  a  tray  laid  across 
her  knees. 

"It's  just  this :  I  don't  like  Mrs.  Clark  half  as  much  as 


IN  THE  CURRENT  39 

you  do.  She's  wicked  as  she  can  be.  Not  wicked  so 
she'd  poison  anybody,  but  wicked  with  her  tongue.  Your 
own  mother  never  liked  her  a  cent's  worth,  Miss  Frizzie." 

"I  knew  that ;  I  knew  that,"  I  exclaimed  in  joy. 

"Of  course,  you  did,  because  there's  a  lot  of  your 
mother  in  you,  Miss  Frizzie.  Mrs.  Clark  always  was  a 
pest  around  here,  and  your  mother  only  stood  her  be- 
cause she  couldn't  get  rid  of  her.  Women  like  Mrs.  Clark 
stick  and  burn  like  mustard  plasters,  but  if  I  was  you, 
Miss  Frizzie,  I'd  drive  her  out  of  my  sight  with  a  broom." 

"But  why  do  they  want  me  to  marry  Norman?  Why 
did  they  ever  plan  it?  Why  are  they  so  determined, 
Mother  Ann?" 

"If  I  could  tell  you  that,  Miss  Frizzie,  I'd  be  able  to 
tell  you  how  many  husbands  you'll  have  and  when  both 
of  us  will  die.  Things  like  this  just  happen.  They  drifted 
into  it,  and  now  they  can't  drift  back ;  and  they're  afraid 
to  stiffen  themselves  and  burst  back  in  spite  of  everything. 
They're  cowards;  they're  frightened  for  what  people 
would  say.  And  they've  been  thinking  on  it  so  long 
they're  sure  there's  nothing  better  for  the  both  of  you. 
That's  the  most  I  can  make  out  of  it,  and  it's  more  than 
they  can  make  out  of  it  themselves.  But  you'll  be  think- 
ing I'm  making  bold  in  talking  to  you  like  this,  Miss 
Frizzie  ?" 

"No,  no,  Mother  Ann,  I  wish  you  to  talk,"  I  said. 
"Go  on." 

"I  couldn't  just  keep  my  mouth  shut  any  longer,"  she 
said.  "I  watched  you  grow  up.  I  took  you  out  of  your 
mother's  arms  a  minute  before  she  died.  I  was  in  the 
house  here  when  you  were  brought  home  from  the 
christening  in  the  church.  I  looked  at  the  hair  rioting 
over  your  head,  just  at  it's  rioting  now.  I  took  you  in 
my  arms,  and  I  said :  'Dr.  Peabody,  you  may  christen  her 


40  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Helen  and  all  the  rest  of  the  fancy  names,  but  she's  always 
going  to  be  Frizzie  to  me.'  That's  the  gospel  truth,  Miss 
Frizzie;  and  from  me  calling  it  one  and  another  took  it 
up  until  here  you  are  this  minute  most  forgetting  your 
real  name." 

I  am  happy  to  say  I  went  straight  to  her  and  kissed  her. 

"If  you  were  I  would  you  marry  him,  Mother  Ann?"  I 
asked,  as  I  drew  back. 

She  looked  at  me  with  a  suspicion  of  a  smile.  "If  I 
were  you  I'd  do  what  my  heart  bid  me,  and  the  world 
might  burn  up  before  I'd  do  different.  It's  you  that's 
doing  the  marrying,  and  Mrs.  Clark  didn't  do  any  great 
shakes  when  she  married,  herself.  Indeed,  she  didn't.  She 
married  a  man  that  had  to  be  bossed,  or  he'd  be  no  man 
at  all.  She's  been  a  good  boss,  I'll  say  that  much  for  her, 
but  I'll  say  not  a  word  besides."  Mother  Ann  heaved  a 
long  sigh.  "I  was  married  myself  once,"  she  went  on, 
after  a  pause,  "and  between  you  and  me,  Miss  Frizzie,  it 
looks  as  if  Mrs.  Clark  got  the  best  of  it.  She's  had  her 
husband  anyway,  but  as  for  myself  I  don't  know  these 
twenty-two  years  back  whether  I'm  a  married  woman  or 
a  widow.  I  took  my  mother's  advice;  if  I  had  to  do  it 
over  again  I'd  take  my  own.  Your  father  married  us,  and 
a  right,  smart  set-up  pair  we  were.  I  thought  my  heart 
was  in  the  right  place ;  maybe  he  thought  the  same.  But 
if  he  did  he  didn't  think  it  long  after  the  wedding,  for 
at  the  end  of  the  first  six  months  he  went  away  and  from 
that  day  to  this  he's  never  come  back." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  Mother  Ann,"  I  said. 

"You  needn't  feel  sorry,  Miss  Frizzie,"  she  replied.  "I 
lost  no  sleep  over  him.  Any  woman  is  a  fool  to  cry  her 
eyes  out  over  a  man  that  doesn't  think  enough  of  her  to 
keep  from  running  away — and  I  wasn't  a  cross  wife, 
either.  The  only  thing  that  worries  me  now  is  the  fear 


IN  THE  CURRENT  41 

he'll  come  back,  for  the  likes  of  him  never  dies.  What 
would  I  do  with  him  ?  I'm  better  pleased  working  in  this 
house  than  working  to  keep  the  roof  over  the  head  of  a 
husband.  I  made  my  mistake  in  marrying  him  in  the  first 
place,  and  watch  out  and  don't  make  the  same  mistake 
yourself,  Miss  Frizzie.  When  you  meet  the  man  that's 
born  for  you,  you'll  know  him  without  knowing  it.  I 
hardly  know  what  I  mean  by  that  myself,  but  maybe  you'll 
catch  it." 

"I  catch  it,  Mother  Ann,"  I  said,  "and  thank  you  very, 
very  much." 

"Then  don't  let  go  of  it,  Miss  Frizzie,"  she  said  cheerily, 
and,  arising,  bustled  out  with  the  tray  in  one  hand  at  her 
side  and  in  the  other  hand  holding  out  the  coffee-pot 
aggressively,  as  if  it  were  a  weapon  with  which  to  chastise 
her  truant  spouse. 

I  thought  on  what  she  had  told  me.  When  you  meet 
the  man  that's  born  for  you,  you'll  know  him  without 
knowing  it.  Wise  Mother  Ann !  We  find  the  truth  where 
we  least  expect  it.  The  truth  is  in  us,  and  sometimes  the 
Mother  Anns  point  it  out  for  us.  Sometimes  we  learn  to 
see  it,  then  we  ourselves  are  Mother  Anns.  Did  I  know 
without  knowing  when  Norman  first  came  courting? 
There  was  a  puzzle.  I  could  not  decide.  Norman  was 
big  and  handsome,  and  kindly  and  brave,  but  was  there 
not  more  to  be  wished  ? 

I  went  up  to  my  room  and  threw  up  the  window  and 
gazed  out  upon  my  old  friend  the  sea.  And  I  did  not 
discern  Norman  out  there.  Neither  was  he  anywhere  in 
the  woods  nor  in  the  fields,  as  father  and  I  passed  through 
them  on  the  drive  over  the  three  miles  of  winding,  dusty 
road  to  The  Beeches.  Neither  was  it  the  Norman  I  was 
looking  for  who  came  running  out  of  the  musky  old 
house  to  assist  me  out  of  the  creaking  surrey. 


CHAPTER  VII 

IT  hardly  seems  necessary  to  tell  you  from  what  The 
Beeches  took  its  name.  The  hoary,  magnificent  wood 
surrounding  the  house  and  barns  afforded  the  suggestion. 
The  name  came  without  any  exercising  of  the  imagina- 
tion. The  Beeches  meant  a  merging  of  things,  and  at  the 
time  of  which  I  write  the  process  was  apparent  in  more 
than  the  mere  externals. 

The  home  of  the  Clarks  had  stood  long  enough  to  be- 
come familiar  with  the  beeches  that  wound  it  round.  The 
house  and  trees  together  seemed  to  be  part  and  parcel  of 
the  sloping  hill  on  which  they  sat.  The  house,  the  trees, 
the  hill,  separately  and  collectively,  smacked  of  antiquity. 
The  place  in  a  way  reminded  me  of  father's  lawn.  It  was 
like  a  verdant  oasis  set  in  the  heart  of  the  great  expanse 
of  stunted  oak  and  pine  and  the  cultivation  taking  grip 
with  an  effort  in  the  sandy  soil. 

It  was  an  ancestor  of  Mr.  Clark  who  had  found  this 
fertile  spot,  planted  it,  and  handed  down  the  house  as  an 
example  of  the  Colonial  period.  I  had  delighted  as  a  child 
to  visit  the  old  place  with  father  and  to  romp  with  Nor- 
man in  the  deep  shadows  of  the  trees.  Now  all  that  was 
changed.  In  the  newness  and  buoyancy  of  nineteen  sum- 
mers there  was  n®  room  for  veneration.  When  the  horse 
turned  in  from  the  road  and  began  to  climb  the  hill  a  feel- 
ing of  depression  weighed  on  me.  I  remember  the  thought 
crossed  my  mind  it  was  as  if  I  were  driving  into  some- 
thing akin  to  a  tomb. 

43 


IN  THE  CURRENT  43 

It  was  such  a  substantial,  eternal  place !  It  breathed  so 
strongly  of  a  life  going  on  and  on  without  ever  shaking 
off  its  monotony  and  sluggishness!  It  seemed  so  un- 
changing, so  fixed  in  conservatism ;  the  oak  walls  of  the 
house  seemed  to  defy  time  itself. 

The  low,  round  stones  marking  the  sides  of  the  drive- 
way were  mossgrown.  The  trees  were  gathering  moss, 
and  their  tops  met  in  a  funereal  arch  overhead.  Per- 
meating all  was  an  atmosphere  of  other  days  and  other 
people,  and  I  was  not  young  enough  nor  yet  old  enough 
to  grow  in  appreciation. 

And  the  Clarks  went  on  and  on  like  their  home — the 
footprints  of  one  generation  followed  by  the  next,  and 
the  highest  ambition  of  each  successive  head  of  the 
family  being  to  fill  the  office  of  district  attorney  of  Suffolk 
County.  Benjamin  Clark  lived  up  to  tradition,  and  kept 
from  dying  of  indolence  by  occasionally  prosecuting  a 
neighbor  for  assult  and  battery,  drunkenness,  or  the  raid- 
ing of  a  chicken  coop.  Norman  Clark  seemed  likely  to 
realize  the  hope  of  his  parents  by  one  day  rising  to  district 
attorney;  perhaps,  he  would  prove  better  than  his  fore- 
runners and  be  rewarded  with  a  seat  on  the  bench.  I 
knew  that  had  been  one  of  the  dreams  of  the  Clarks 
through  several  generations,  but  it  still  waited  for  realiza- 
tion. The  family  was  rooted  in  itself;  it  needed  a  good 
shaking  up.  It  was  like  my  own  family;  it  was  like  all 
the  old,  sedate  families  scattered  about  the  county,  all 
boasting  of  long  lines  of  ancestry,  all  only  a  few  steps 
removed  from  the  Revolution. 

Other  families,  whose  only  boast  was  great  wealth,  had 
carried  out  an  invasion  within  recent  years.  They  had 
settled  themselves  in  what  they  called  a  "colony,"  with 
their  summer  homes  on  green  ridges  won  from  yellow 
sand  dunes.  These  families  played  their  golf  and  their 


44  IN  THE  CURRENT 

tennis,  drove  their  automobiles  and  their  horses,  sailed 
their  yachts  and  engaged  in  their  other  forms  of  amuse- 
ments without  once  trespassing  on  the  self-contented  pri- 
vacy of  the  Clarks,  the  Peabodys,  and  all  the  rest  of  the 
old  families  rooted  in  the  soil.  The  Clarks  and  the  Pea- 
bodys and  their  allies  near  and  far  were  exceedingly,  even 
excessively,  serious. 

I  could  picture  myself  a  bride  coming  up  that  driveway. 
I  should  be  like  half-a-dozen,  perhaps  a  dozen,  brides  be- 
fore me.  I  should  look  suspiciously  into  the  gloom  of 
the  trees;  it  would  not  surprise  me  to  see  the  brides  of 
other  times  look  at  me  with  grave  faces  from  behind  the 
hoary  trunks.  The  sound  of  distant  laughter  would  be  in 
my  ears.  A  line  of  embarrassed  bridegrooms  would  wait, 
each  in  turn  to  give  me  a  quick  embrace  and  a  shy  kiss. 
And  for  that  there  would  be  hand-clapping,  and  the 
laughing  approval  of  the  throng  of  guests,  gathered  in 
the  great,  square  dining-room,  with  oak  panels  on  the 
walls  and  massive  oak  beams  across  the  ceiling. 

It  all  was  very  clear  to  me.  The  marriage  of  the  son 
and  heir  was  a  red-letter  day  in  the  Clark  family.  It  had 
been  a  day  of  days  always ;  it  would  be  a  day  of  days  when 
I  came  there  a  bride.  A  bride !  Yes,  and  when  the  day 
was  done,  and  the  guests  had  departed,  I  should  take  up 
living  where  other  brides  had  left  off.  I  should  prowl 
around  and  explore  the  dim  roominess  of  my  new  home. 
I  should  fit  the  big  iron  keys  to  the  big  old-fashioned 
iron  locks.  I  should  examine  the  heavy  iron  door 
handles.  I  should  watch  the  sun  filtering  through  the 
heavy  window  shutters.  I  should  inspect  the  aged  ma- 
hogany furniture;  the  long  line  of  Clarks  in  faded  gold 
frames  would  pass  under  my  scrutiny,  and  then  take  up 
the  sameness  of  the  life  of  all  the  brides  who  had  pre- 
ceded me. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  45 

These  thoughts  and  many  more  of  a  similar  nature 
possessed  me  when  I  accepted  Norman's  extended  hand, 
and  laid  the  slightest  possible  weight  upon  him  in  stepping 
down  from  the  surrey  to  the  sandstone  flag,  which  was 
scoured  almost  painfully  clean,  and  lay  the  full  width  of 
the  doorway.  I  thought  Norman  suspected  my  state  of 
mind,  for  he  withdrew  his  hand  rather  hastily  and  seemed 
to  take  undue  interest  in  a  conversation  about  the  weather 
with  father.  We  went  slowly  into  the  roomy  hall,  and 
presently  Mrs.  Clark  came  rustling  down  the  stairs,  with 
her  husband  carefully  picking  his  steps  behind  her. 

I  must  say,  Mrs.  Clark,  appeared  cordial.  Whatever 
she  felt  in  her  heart  outwardly  she  was  the  soul  of  good- 
nature— for  her.  I  even  detected  a  degree  of  fervor  in 
the  smack  with  which  she  saluted  me.  I  was  flattered 
when  she  stood  off  and  looked  me  up  and  down  and  said : 
"How  pretty  you  look,  Frizzie."  Her  tactlessness  came 
out  when  she  added :  "You  put  me  in  remembrance  of  the 
time  when  I  was  a  girl."  Gracious,  if  the  day  ever  came 
when  I  should  look  like  Mrs.  Clark  in  the  present  or  in 
the  past ! 

I  shall  not  tax  you  with  the  details  of  that  second  con- 
ference. It  was  a  conflict  much  like  the  first.  Father  was 
on  his  dignity  again ;  Mrs.  Clark  tried  to  be  dignified  and 
couldn't.  Mr.  Clark  was  fidgety  and  nervous.  He  had  a 
difficult  position,  trying  on  the  one  hand  to  make  clear  his 
sympathy  for  me,  and  on  the  other  seeking  to  avoid  the 
wrath  of  his  wife.  Norman  was  pale  of  cheek,  reserved, 
unresponsive,  and  unsatisfying  in  his  protests  that  the 
wedding  must  wait  upon  my  consent.  As  for  myself  I 
was  quick  in  temper  and  obstinate,  a  prey  to  a  score  of 
doubts ;  one  moment  admiring  Norman,  the  next  cold  and 
resentful  toward  him.  I  would  think  our  ways  perhaps 
ran  together,  and  again  I  would  think  our  happiness  de- 


46  IN  THE  CURRENT 

pended  upon  our  traveling  apart.  Not  for  a  moment  did 
I  lose  my  measure  of  sullen  enmity  for  Mrs.  Clark.  I 
opposed  my  father  at  every  turn,  and  entertained  the 
secret  wish  that  the  problem  could  be  left  to  the  tender 
disposition  of  Mr.  Clark. 

There  was  one  exciting  scene,  however,  which  I  cannot 
pass  over.  This  because  it  led  to  my  discomfiture,  and 
showed  what  troubles  may  follow  a  thoughtless  speech. 
I  am  afraid  my  temper  has  been  one  of  my  greatest  handi- 
caps ;  I  know  to  a  certainity  it  has  ruled  my  tongue  and 
my  actions  many,  many  times  too  often.  Of  course,  the 
talk  and  general  attitude  of  Mrs.  Clark  would  tax  the 
patience  of  a  saint,  yet  that  was  no  reason  why  I  should 
have  expended  my  wrath  upon  Norman. 

Mrs.  Clark  had  been  babbling  away  at  a  great  rate  when 
I  lost  control  of  myself.  I  ran  to  Norman  and  flaring  in 
anger  demanded  why  he  wished  the  engagement  broken 
when  his  every  indication  was  for  the  wedding  to  go  on  ? 
Norman's  cheeks  grew  still  paler  at  the  question,  then  a 
tinge  of  red  showed  in  them.  His  eyes  seemed  to  pierce 
me,  and  I  quailed  as  I  realized  sincerity  was  gripping 
every  fibre  in  him. 

"Can't  you  read  the  truth,  Frizzie;  can't  you  guess  it 
even?"  he  asked,  his  voice  rich  in  pleading.  "Don't  you 
know  the  only  reason  I  don't  assert  myself  and  take  it 
out  of  the  hands  of  mother  and  Dr.  Peabody  is  because 
I  love  you  ?" 

"What !"  I  cried.    "You  mean  to  tell  me  that  now  ?" 

Every  speck  of  red  went  from  his  face,  which  was  very 
pale  again.  He  did  not  heed  my  call,  but  turned  on  father 
and  Mrs.  Clark. 

"You've  wrung  it  from  me  at  last,"  he  said,  in  a  voice 
sharp  with  reproach,  "and  you  may  draw  what  satisfac- 
tion you  can  from  it." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  47 

"I've  wrung  nothing  from  you,  Norman,"  put  in  Mr. 
Clark. 

"I've  got  to  thank  you  for  that,  father,"  said  Norman. 
"Mother  and  Dr.  Peabody  wrung  it  from  me,  that's  what 
I've  got  to  say."  He  paused,  and  Mrs.  Clark  had  not  the 
heart  to  speak.  Father  only  bowed  his  head,  as  if  in  silent 
confession  to  the  accusation.  I  wished  I  were  a  thousand 
miles  away.  This  was  more  than  I  had  bargained  for. 
But  escape  was  impossible,  and  Norman  turned  to  me 
again. 

"I  don't  blame  you,  Frizzie,"  he  said.  "It's  only  that 
your  father  and  my  mother  thought  they  knew  more  than 
either  of  us.  They  led  me  into  this  just  as  they  led  you. 
They  thought  they  put  the  idea  of  our  marrying  in  my 
head  when  it  was  there  already.  I  wished  to  have  my  own 
way  about  it,  but  they  wouldn't  let  me.  They  thought  we 
were  so  young  we  both  needed  guardians.  Had  I  been 
left  to  myself  and  had  you  favored  me,  then  that  would 
have  been  splendid.  Had  you  refused  me,  then  that  would 
have  been  all  right,  too.  I  should  have  gotten  over  it,  but 
they  wouldn't  listen  to  me.  They  knew  better ;  they  knew 
what  was  in  your  heart  and  what  was  in  mine.  They 
drove  me.  They  tried  to  drive  you.  But  you  were  the 
stronger,  and  their  well-laid  plan  failed.  You  were 
stronger  than  I,  and  I'm  glad  one  of  us  had  the  courage 
to  fight.  You're  right,  Frizzie.  We  can't  and  we  won't 
be  married  as  a  matter  of  business." 

"Norman,  Norman,"  wailed  Mrs.  Clark,  "you  mustn't 
be  so  hard  on  me.  I  did  everything  for  the  best." 

"That's  just  it,  mother,"  replied  Norman,  "everything's 
done  for  the  best.  And  if  it  turned  out  for  the  worst  you 
wouldn't  be  the  one  to  suffer  for  it.  Why,  you  wouldn't 
even  give  me  time  to  propose  for  myself.  You  anticipated 
that — you  remember  that  evening,  Frizzie,  when  I  entered 


48  IN  THE  CURRENT 

the  parlor  and  mother  was  talking  to  you  ?  I  was  never 
even  asked  about  the  date  for  the  wedding.  All  I  heard 
was  that  bridegrooms  were  of  no  account  at  weddings, 
and  that  our  wedding  was  to  be  just  the  same  as  the  wed- 
ding of  father  and  mother,  which  was  like  the  wedding 
of  grandfather  and  grandmother,  and  so  on  back  through 
a  hundred  years  or  more.  I  ought  to  have  asserted  myself, 
but  how  could  I  ?  My  hands  were  tied.  But,  thank  God, 
the  truth  is  out  at  last.  We'll  part  this  minute,  Frizzie. 
You'll  go  your  way,  and  I'll  go  mine,  and  we'll  forget  all 
about  this.  And  I'll  say  just  one  word  more,  and  then 
have  done  forever :  I  loved  you,  Frizzie ;  I  loved  you  years 
ago,  and  I  still  love  you.  That's  the  whole  truth,  and 
whatever  happens  time  will  not  change  it." 

His  voice  rang  triumphant,  and  I  stood  helpless  in  a 
rush  of  emotion.  I  saw,  however,  the  blood  mount  in  a 
crimson  flood  to  the  roots  of  Mrs.  Clark's  straight  black 
and  gray  hair. 

"I  won't  recall  the  invitations  at  this  hour !"  she  almost 
shrieked.  "I  won't  try  to  explain  what  never  can  be 
explained." 

"It's  settled,  mother,"  said  Norman,  "and  the  invitations 
will  be  recalled." 

For  a  few  seconds  Mrs.  Clark  wavered  on  her  feet. 
Then  her  body  seemed  to  lose  all  power  of  resistance.  She 
sent  out  several  little  cries  of  despair  and  grief.  Finally 
the  well-meaning  but  misguided  woman  flopped  back 
heavily  into  her  chair  and  burst  into  a  torrent  of  tears. 
It  was  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Clark  weeping  disconsolately 
that  kept  me  from  breaking  down.  I  could  never  afford 
to  make  myself  as  ugly  as  that.  I  controlled  myself  with 
a  great  effort,  and  just  checked  myself  short  of  throwing 
my  arms  around  Norman's  neck. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  49 

It  would  be  idle  to  attempt  to  deny  he  had  made  a  pro- 
found impression  upon  me.  The  truth  was,  he  had  never 
looked  so  big  and  manly  in  my  eyes  as  he  did  then.  Why, 
he  had  taken  on  inches !  And  I  was  still  fighting  against 
my  impulse ;  still  actually  close  to  surrender,  when  father 
steeled  me  against  conceding  a  point.  Ever  the  same 
collected  and  analytical  man,  he  walked  quietly  to  Nor- 
man and  put  both  hands  on  his  shoulders. 

"Do  you  think,  Norman,  that  Frizzie  could  refuse  you 
after  a  speech  like  that?  I  don't." 

Why  did  he  say  it?  Why  did  he  dare  me,  defy  me? 
Why  did  he  rouse  all  the  sleeping  little  devils  in  me 
again  ?  Why,  why  ?  Men  are  so  foolish  sometimes  I  be- 
lieve they  never  will  understand  women.  I  know  I  cannot 
understand  them.  If  father  could  not  rule  by  force  he 
would  rule  by  stealth.  Of  course,  I  should  have  dismissed 
him  from  consideration  but  how  was  anybody  to  reflect 
in  such  a  crisis?  I  am  not  one  of  the  angelic  .few,  who 
stop  to  reason  in  the  heat  of  battle.  And  I  was  headstrong 
and  wilful  and  spiteful  enough  to  let  that  interference 
of  father's  turn  the  scale.  I  stormed  like  a  little  fury.  I 
railed  at  father  and  Mrs.  Clark  and  at  Norman.  I  refused 
to  stop;  I  continued  against  efforts  at  interruption  until 
my  fiery  outpouring  was  brought  to  an  end  by  emotional 
exhaustion.  I  glanced  around  and  saw  only  unfriendly 
faces.  That  was  enough.  Without  another  word  I  rushed 
from  the  room,  across  the  hall,  and  out  of  the  house. 

I  halted  on  the  doorstep,  but  the  sound  of  excited  voices 
behind  me  sent  me  fleeing  down  the  driveway.  I  went  on 
under  the  .arching  trees,  and  I  was  close  to  the  wrought- 
iron  gate  at  the  highway  when  Norman's  call  reached  me. 

"Frizzie !  Frizzie !"  came  his  voice,  and  I  hurried  to  the 
gate  and  turned  with  my  back  against  it.  I  received  Nor- 
man with  laughter ;  just  why  I  did  so  I  couldn't  tell.  I  did 


50  IN  THE  CURRENT 

not  shrink  from  him.  I  did  not  feel  depressed  at  his 
presence.  Rather  I  was  glad  he  was  there  with  me,  and 
my  gaiety  rose  as  I  swung  open  the  gate  and  caught  him 
by  the  sleeve  and  dragged  him  into  the  roadway. 

"Come,  come,  Norman,"  I  cried,  "away,  away  down 
the  road." 

He  went  with  me,  not  unwillingly,  and  we  had  reached 
a  turn  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  where  the  woods  gave  way 
to  the  patchwork  of  fields,  when  we  came  upon  a  young 
man  stretched  flat  in  the  dust  working  with  the  motor  of 
an  automobile. 

He  heard  our  footsteps,  drew  himself  out  and  rested  on 
one  knee  as  if  to  wait  for  us  to  pass.  I  saw  a  smile  spread 
over  his  begrimed  face.  He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  stepped 
forward  with  his  hand  held  out  to  Norman. 

"Why,  hello,  Clark,"  he  said  in  good  cheer,  "who  would 
have  thought  of  meeting  you  here !" 

"Hello,  Wesson,"  responded  Norman,  with  more  ani- 
mation than  was  usual  with  him.  "Where  did  you  drop 
from?" 

"I'm  headed  for  pop's  place  down  near  the  end  of  the 
Island,  and  it's  just  my  luck  to  have  this  car  break  down. 
I  haven't  seen  you  since  we  left  college,  Clark.  Where 
have  you  been  hiding  yourself?" 

Norman  did  not  answer  the  question,  but  introduced 
Mr.  Wesson  to  me,  and  I  was  unable  to  still  a  fluttering  of 
my  heart.  The  name  of  Wesson  was  not  unfamiliar  to 
me.  I  had  heard  Norman  speak  of  all  his  classmates  in 
Yale.  Three  years  before,  when  he  returned  from  college, 
he  was  full  of  college  songs,  and  his  mother  grumbled 
because  of  his  mine  of  college  slang.  "Never  mind,  my 
dear,"  Mr.  Clark  used  to  say,  "the  boy  will  get  over  it. 
They  all  do."  And  Norman  did  get  over  it.  Perhaps  it 
was  because  of  the  impatient  criticism  of  his  mother; 


IN  THE  CURRENT  51 

perhaps  it  was  because  of  the  general  effect  of  the  prosaic 
surroundings  in  which  he  moved.  I  never  could  decide 
those  things  to  my  satisfaction,  but  before  I  had  been 
five  minutes  in  the  presence  of  Mr.  Wesson  I  became 
conscious  that  a  wonderful  change  had  been  wrought  in 
Norman.  Three  years  had  robbed  him  of  a  liveliness,  a 
zest,  an  enthusiasm  in  living;  he  had  become  solid  and 
serious.  It  seemed  he  was  gradually  fitting  into  the  drab- 
ness  of  the  life  around  him.  It  impressed  me  that  Norman 
used  to  be  like  Mr.  Wesson,  and  I  never  stopped  to  ask 
myself  what  there  really  was  to  choose  between  them. 
Girls  of  my  years,  I  very  much  doubt,  do  not  look 
beneath  the  surface.  All  I  realized  or  cared  for  then  was 
that  Mr.  Wesson  afforded  something  that  I  thought  was 
missing  in  Norman.  The  truth  of  it  was,  I  was  promptly 
carried  away  by  the  young  stranger. 

I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  predict  you  will  say, 
"What  an  utterly  foolish  girl !"  And  the  only  defense  I 
can  offer  is  the  question :  "Was  there  ever  a  foolish  girl  ?" 
For  my  part,  without  a  moment's  hesitation,  I  answer: 
"Not  one."  I  cannot  give  a  reason  for  my  belief,  yet  I 
am  encouraged  in  the  thought  that  I  am  not  a  victim  of 
blind  optimism,  or  blind  vanity.  When  I  depend  for  ar- 
gument upon  popular  prejudices  I  condemn  myself  forth- 
with, but  where  is  the  girl  so  pitifully  practical  as  to 
ponder  gravely  these  outward  forms  ? 

It  was  enough  that  Mr.  Wesson  interested  me — in- 
terested me  greatly.  I  did  not  imagine  for  a  moment  I 
could  fall  in  love  with  him,  but  I  liked  the  breeziness  of 
him;  I  liked  his  frankness,  his  perfect  confidence  in 
himself. 

His  whole  bearing  pleased  me.  I  felt  he  was  a  man  to 
trust.  There  was  a  wholesome  ring  in  his  laugh.  There 
was  a  flattering  consideration  in  his  manner  that  I  never 


52  IN  THE  CURRENT 

looked  for  in  Norman  until  Mr.  Wesson  made  its  absence 
so  apparent. 

In  short,  the  young  man  stirred  new  feelings  within  me. 
He  gave  me  new  thoughts,  and  I  am  constrained  to  con- 
fess to  you  that  had  it  come  in  that  very  first  moment  to 
a  choice  between  Norman  and  his  friend  I  should  un- 
hesitatingly have  given  my  hand  to  Mr.  Wesson.  I  should 
have  been  ready  even  to  forego  all  my  fancies  about  love, 
and  what  I  thought  love  meant. 

What  shall  you  and  I,  in  our  experience  and  wisdom 
of  the  present,  say  of  it  all  ?  Just  this :  So  the  world  goes 
and  we  live  and  learn ! 


CHAPTER   VIII 

MR.  WESSON  had  been  down  again  under  the  automobile 
for  ten  minutes  or  more,  before  he  arose  and  began  to 
knock  the  dust  out  of  his  clothes  with  his  open  hands. 

"I've  got  it  at  last,"  he  said,  with  gratification  in  his 
voice.  "It's  taken  me  more  than  an  hour,  but  I'm  lucky 
I  haven't  to  get  a  farmer  to  tow  me  home.  You  have  a 
car,  of  course,  Clark,  and  you  know  what  tinkering  it 
means  ?" 

"No,"  replied  Norman,  "I'd  rather  have  a  fast  horse 
any  day." 

"It's  great  sport,  though,"  laughed  Mr.  Wesson. 
"There's  so  much  trouble  making  them  go."  He  smiled 
invitingly  upon  me.  "Do  you  care  for  a  spin,  Miss 
Peabody?" 

"I  should  be  delighted,  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  replied. 

"Well,  into  the  tonneau,  both  of  you,"  he  said  spiritedly, 
"and  just  say  where  you  wish  to  go." 

Norman  seemed  inclined  to  hold  back,  but  I  pulled  him 
in  after  me.  "Could  you  take  us  to  the  sea,  Mr.  Wesson  ?" 
I  asked. 

"Why,  that's  hardly  far  enough  to  give  the  car  a  good 
start,"  he  laughed,  and  we  were  off. 

The  wind  played  pranks  with  my  hair  and  brought  red 
to  my  cheeks.  I  fancied  myself  freer  than  ever  before  in 
my  life ;  the  country,  as  it  rose  in  front  and  shot  past  out 
of  sight,  seemed  to  take  on  a  new  meaning  for  me.  It  was 
such  a  little  place !  It  was  so  easy  to  run  away  from  it ! 

53 


54  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Free !  Free !  That  was  it.  I  felt  the  freedom  in  my  veins, 
in  every  nerve  and  fibre  of  me.  At  first  I  clung  to  Nor- 
man, but  I  quickly  overcame  timidity,  and  drew  aside 
from  him  to  sit  there  strong  and  pliant,  responding  to 
every  motion  of  the  machine,  thinking  myself  a  part  of  it, 
and  glorying  in  a  spirit  of  independence. 

We  came  to  familiar  ground,  and  I  leaned  forward. 
"Go  slowly  now,  please,  Mr.  Wesson?"  I  requested.  He 
brought  the  automobile  almost  to  a  standstill. 

"What  an  ideal  spot !"  he  said,  and  I  could  not  mistake 
his  earnestness. 

"Ideal?"  I  asked  in  surprise. 

"Yes,"  he  returned,  "with  the  woods  making  a  frame 
for  the  house,  and  the  view  of  the  beach  and  the  sea.  It's 
all  ideal." 

I  was  silent  in  thought.  What  a  contrary  world  it  was ! 
What  did  one  know  of  it  ?  I  felt  the  wheels  spin  rapidly 
again.  The  wind  now  smote  me  sharply  in  the  cheeks, 
and  it  carried  the  salty  breath  of  the  ocean.  We  ran  out 
into  the  open  until  the  Atlantic  rolled  almost  up  to  us. 
Once  more  the  pace  slackened. 

"Here  we  are,  Miss  Peabody — at  the  sea,"  said  Mr. 
Wesson.  "That's  what  I  call  an  inspiring  view." 

"Do  you  really  think  so,  Mr.  Wesson  ?"  I  asked. 

"Of  course,"  he  replied.  "Look.  You  might  think  it 
was  a  great  burnished  shield  that  the  sun  had  laid  across 
the  earth.  To  me  there's  nothing  quite  so  good  as  the  sea 
with  the  sun  upon  it." 

My  heart  beat  in  joy  at  the  news.  I  forgot  Norman 
sitting  beside  me.  I  gave  myself  to  dreams — delicious 
dreams.  I  was  not  awakened  even  when  I  found  we  were 
heading  into  the  dreariness  of  the  woods.  Norman  sought 
to  engage  me  in  conversation  as  we  followed  a  circuitous 
sweep  to  The  Beeches.  I  answered  his  many  questions 


IN  THE  CURRENT  55 

almost  mechanically.  It  was  not  until  Mr.  Wesson 
stopped  the  car  at  the  wrought-iron  gate  that  I  roused 
myself  to  action.  I  deliberately  left  a  glove  on  the  seat, 
and  stepped  out  and  faced  Mr.  Wesson,  standing  with  his 
cap  in  his  hand.  "My  glove ;  my  glove,  Norman,"  I  said, 
with  excitement  I  could  not  hide,  but  the  meaning  of 
which  he  mistook.  I  saw  Norman  step  into  the  tonneau. 
I  felt  my  face  grow  crimson  but  I  did  not  flinch. 

"Please  come  to-morrow — to  the  sea?"  I  asked. 

Mr.  Wesson  gazed  open-eyed  at  me,  but  gathered  him- 
self quickly.  "At  three/'  he  said,  and  I  turned  and  in  my 
confusion  almost  snatched  the  glove  from  Norman.  He 
might  have  read  me,  but  he  was  free  of  suspicion. 

"Good-by,  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  said,  and  barely  touched  his 
fingers.  I  went  straight  to  the  gate  and  turned  there  and 
felt  a  pang  of  guilt  as  Norman  took  Mr.  Wesson's  hand 
in  a  hearty  shake.  Mr.  Wesson  did  not  look  back,  but  I 
could  not  resist  the  impulse  to  wave  the  glove  in  his  direc- 
tion, as  the  car  was  hidden  in  the  dust  it  lifted  from  the 
road.  Oh,  simple  maiden! 


CHAPTER  IX 

BREAKFAST  was  over,  and  I  began  to  count  the  hours. 
How  many  were  there?  One,  two,  three — seven  hours — a 
day — an  age!  Father  had  remained  silent,  and  I  was 
thankful  for  that.  I  could  see  Mother  Ann  was  anxious 
to  know  what  had  happened  at  The  Beeches,  but  I  gave 
her  no  opportunity  to  question  me.  From  the  breakfast 
table  I  went  out  on  the  veranda.  Nipper  came  wriggling 
a  morning  greeting.  I  sent  him  away  shrinking,  with  an 
impatient  command.  I  wandered  around  the  house,  and 
roamed  from  room  to  room.  I  tried  in  vain  to  interest 
myself  in  a  book,  which  in  contradictory  goodness  I  had 
drawn  from  one  of  the  shelves  in  father's  library. 
Luncheon  passed  without  a  word  on  the  great  problem. 
I  went  to  my  room,  locked  myself  in,  and  attired  myself 
in  one  of  my  plainest  and,  I  was  sure,  prettiest  white 
dresses.  I  spent  minutes  tying  a  ribbon  in  the  back  of  my 
hair.  I  went  out  to  the  road,  and  with  a  few  wild  flowers 
in  my  hand  waited  and  watched. 

He  came  as  I  knew  he  would — around  by  the  sea.  My 
heart  leaped  when  I  saw  him ;  it  thrilled  with  a  sense  of 
kinship,  aye,  of  proprietorship.  I  thought  he  had  traveled 
that  way  to  pay  tribute  to  me.  He  responded  to  the  desire 
in  me.  He  followed  a  golden  path.  He  was  a  Prince 
Charming  making  fit  approach  to  my  knoll,  to  my 
sanctuary,  which  suddenly  was  a  spot  not  lonely  and 
desolate,  I  was  convinced,  but  a  place  alive  with  all  the 
world,  smiling  for  him  and  me. 

56 


IN  THE  CURRENT  57 

He  tried  to  remonstrate,  but  I  would  not  listen.  He 
was  mine  for  that  hour;  mine  to  manage  as  I  pleased; 
mine  to  glory  over  to  myself;  mine  to  sit  and  admire; 
mine  to  paint  in  rainbow  colors  as  the  man  of  all  men — 
the  man  before  whom  to  bare  every  secret,  the  man  to 
laugh  and  to  sing  with  me  and,  perchance,  to  cry. 

I  led  him  there,  going  so  swiftly  along  the  beaten  track 
that  he  laughingly  besought  me  not  to  outdistance  him. 
I  showed  him  my  seat.  I  placed  him  in  it,  feeling  as  if 
I  were  bestowing  a  king  on  his  throne.  And  so  I  was,  for 
I  affirm  that  for  me  that  day  a  king  held  court,  and  I  was 
the  favored  debutante,  in  my  train  and  my  jewels,  bending 
the  knee  before  him.  Why,  even  the  Atlantic  put  its  white 
ruffles  in  order  and  paraded  in  slow  dignity  to  the  foot  of 
the  seat  of  His  Imperial  Majesty.  Oh,  dreams  of  girl- 
hood! Had  I  died  then  angels  would  have  borne  me  off 
in  a  hammock  of  silver  cords.  Dreams,  dreams !  Bless 
them  one  and  all,  for  they  must  be  born  of  another  and  a 
better  world. 

Was  I  wrong?  Was  I  misguided?  Ah,  well ;  judge  me 
harshly ;  measure  me  by  your  conventions ;  reprove  me  by 
your  formalities;  laugh  at  me  in  your  worldly  wisdom, 
but,  I  implore,  spare  the  last  bitter  word  until  you  have 
tried  to  see  as  I  saw.  I  know  otherwise  now,  but,  but — 
those  everlasting,  uncontrollable  buts! — but  how  do  I 
know?  Dear,  dear;  there  it  is  once  more!  I  lead  you 
back  to  that  question  of  experience  again. 

"Why  don't  you  go  to  the  city?"  That  was  what  he 
said  when  I  had  told  him  all,  and  I  sprang  to  the  thought. 
All,  all  I  told  him  sitting  there.  Looking  up  into  his  open, 
sympathetic  face,  I  poured  out  the  whole  painful  story. 
I  told  him  of  Norman,  of  father,  of  Mrs.  Clark,  of  Mr. 
Clark,  of  my  isolation,  of  my  yearnings,  and  of  my  drift- 
ing toward  despair.  And  he  seemed  to  feel  so  deeply  for 


58  IN  THE  CURRENT 

me,  seemed  to  have  so  complete  grasp  of  the  woe  of  me, 
that  after  the  last  word  had  been  spoken  I  felt  as  if  I  had 
been  relieved  of  a  crushing,  terrible  burden.  Neither  was 
I  mistaken,  I  am  sure  to  this  hour,  only  at  that  time  I  did 
not  know  that  every  saint  is  a  sinner  and  every  sinner 
a  saint. 

We  walked  back  to  the  automobile  hand  in  hand.  We 
actually  did,  and  I  confess  to  a  twinge  of  regret  because 
he  did  not  manifest  a  desire  to  kiss  me.  Not  that  I  should 
have  permitted  it.  Oh,  no;  only  that  such  feelings  will 
take  hold  of  us  at  times,  and  whether  wicked  or  not  ex- 
plain them  away  we  cannot. 

I  believed  him — honestly,  honestly,  I  did — when  he 
told  me  I  was  wasted  in  such  a  desolate  corner  of 
creation;  when  he  declared  I  was  mentally  far  above 
father  and  Norman  and  Mrs.  Clark.  Could  I  think  to  the 
contrary  ?  Impossible,  because  such  a  lurking  notion  had 
suggested  itself  to  me  more  than  once,  and  besides  how 
was  I  to  resist  the  flattery  in  the  argument?  "You  were 
born  to  take  the  world  captive,"  he  said,  and  I  believed 
that,  too.  Poor  Frizzle,  I  say  to  myself  now  when  I  think 
of  it.  Poor  Frizzle.  I  have  no  defense.  I  am  tempted, 
but  I  have  not  the  assurance  to  resort  to  the  plea  I  was 
merely  a  woman,  a  very  young  and  a  very  foolish,  reckless 
one  at  that. 

But  never  mind ;  we  shall  pass  on.  He  rode  away,  and 
after  he  had  turned  the  corner  I  kissed  my  hand  in  that 
direction.  I  returned  to  my  home  with  light  steps,  keep- 
ing time  to  the  song  that  was  in  my  heart.  All  the  world 
was  bright,  all  merriment,  all  gladness.  Away  with 
pining  and  gloomy  reflection  and  dull  brooding  and 
pressing  care!  On  with  laughter  and  gaiety,  joy  and 
content !  The  old  earth  spins  merrily  under  dancing  feet, 
and  the  heavens  themselves  are  gay ! 


CHAPTER  X 

FROM  the  gate  I  saw  father  in  the  library,  bent  over  his 
desk  as  usual.  I  went  to  him  and  put  my  arms  around 
his  neck,  and  whispered  in  his  ear : 

"Daddy,  daddy;  I've  got  something  to  tell  you.  Can 
you  guess?" 

An  expectant  smile  lighted  his  face.  "I'm  sure  I  can't 
guess,  Frizzie,"  he  said."  I  caught  him  closer. 

"I  will  marry  Norman,"  I  said. 

*^He  arose  from  his  chair,  almost  lifting  me  off  my  feet 
with  him,  and  caught  me  in  a  hearty  embrace. 

"I  knew  you  would  come  to  your  senses,  my  child,"  he 
said.  "God  bless  you,  Frizzie,  and  make  you  happy ;  you 
are  your  father's  daughter,  after  all." 

"I  know  I  am  my  father's  daughter,"  I  said,  and  the 
truth  was  hidden  from  him.  He  telephoned  to  The 
Beeches.  Mrs.  Clark  answered  the  call,  and  she  fairly 
made  the  wire  thrill  with  her  exclamations  of  elation  and 
selfish  rejoicing.  She  spoke  to  me,  after  she  had  expended 
some  of  her  enthusiasm  on  father.  Norman  was  out,  she 
said,  grieving  somewhere,  but  she  would  find  him;  she 
would  find  him  In  a  trice,  and  she  would  ride  over  with 
him — and  all  that  had  happened  would  be  a  secret  for- 
ever from  the  gossips  of  Suffolk  County.  She  would  bring 
my  wedding  dress,  too.  Only  that  very  hour  she  had  re- 
ceived it,  and  it  was  beautiful. 

"Happiness  is  no  word  for  the  way  I  feel  at  present," 
she  said  at  last.  "You'll  be  the  pride  of  Norman  and  my- 
self— the  pride  of  us  all." 


60  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"I  will  try  to  merit  your  faith  in  me,  Mrs.  Clark,"  I 
replied. 

"No  fear  about  that,  Frizzie,"  she  responded.  "I  shall 
see  you  in  just  one  hour  and  give  you  a  mother's  kiss. 
Good-by,  my  darling." 

I  got  the  kiss  as  she  promised.  She  was  quick  enough 
this  time  to  alight  unaided  from  the  faded  carriage.  She 
wrapped  me  in  an  embrace  that  almost  moved  me  to  resist- 
ance. But  I  endured  it,  because  the  lightness  in  me  was 
not  so  easily  dispelled  as  that.  I  had  initiative  of  my  own. 
I  implanted  a  kiss  squarely  on  the  right  cheek  of  Mr. 
Clark,  the  first  I  had  ever  given  that  adorable  old  man. 
Norman  hung  back  embarrassed.  His  cheeks  were  flushed 
and  he  shifted  nervously  on  his  feet.  I  went  over  to  him 
and  kissed  him  boldly,  to  the  unbounded  delight  of  Mrs. 
Clark.  Such  hugging  and  such  kissing!  I  even  kissed 
father,  and  I  made  Mrs.  Clark's  joy  complete  by  giving 
her  a  smack  of  my  own  free  will.  I  did  it  all  realistically, 
too;  I  prided  myself  on  that.  Not  one  suspected.  When 
I  look  back  upon  that  scene  now,  really  I  think  I  was  born 
to  be  a  great  actress. 

The  liveliness  of  the  dinner  table ;  the  hum  of  animated 
conversation;  the  laughter,  the  jests,  the  fun  about  the 
bridegroom  Norman  would  make,  about  the  nervousness 
of  all  bridegrooms,  about  them  sometimes  forgetting  the 
ring;  the  free  advice  to  Norman  and  to  me;  the  talk  of 
plans,  of  the  coming  of  the  best  man — all  the  way  from 
New  Jersey,  mind  you — and,  favorite  topic  of  Mrs.  Clark, 
the  care  I  should  exercise  in  my  passing  as  a  bride  under 
the  eyes  of  the  pick  of  the  permanent  society  of  Suffolk 
County!  Such  a  dinner  as  it  was!  Even  father  himself 
relaxed,  cracked  jokes  and  laughed  over  them.  Even  Mr. 
Clark  enlivened  the  occasion,  and  was  moved  to  declare 
he  felt  younger  by  twenty  years.  Why  shouldn't  he,  the 


6i 

dear  old  man,  with  the  thongs  of  his  bondage  loosened  for 
once  ?  No  dejection,  no  gloom,  no  bitterness,  no  animos- 
ity entered  there.  All  was  playfulness  and  mirth,  and  I 
myself  was  j oiliest  of  all.  None  reading  my  secret,  none 
suspecting  it — none  save  Mother  Ann,  gliding  noiselessly 
in  and  out,  and  casting  reproachful  eyes  at  me  as  she 
circled  the  table. 

And  at  the  end,  Mrs.  Clark  insistent  to  put  me  in  my 
wedding  dress.  Not  a  glimpes  might  the  men  steal,  she 
said ;  the  blinds  in  my  room  were  drawn  carefully  and  the 
door  locked.  Such  fitting  and  such  praising!  Did  Mrs. 
Clark  ever  look  upon  so  pretty  a  bride?  Not  one  in  all 
her  long  list  of  brides,  and  the  dress !  Ah,  the  dress — it 
was  perfection  itself;  flawless  in  every  line  and  seam;  not 
an  alteration  to  make;  not  one  more  thing  to  do  except 
to  catch  the  one  last  button  in  the  middle  of  my  back, 
which  Mrs.  Clark  left  unfastened  at  the  dictate  of  a  super- 
stitious scruple. 

I  stood  forth  and  inspected  myself  in  the  mirror,  and 
right  proud  I  felt.  It  was  not  an  elaborate  creation,  but 
it  was  the  best  Covey  could  produce,  and  I  was  not  exact- 
ing in  those  days  as  I  am  now.  "It  is  my  wedding  dress, 
Mrs.  Clark,"  I  said,  not  without  emotion,  but  emotion  far 
removed  from  any  thought  of  Norman's  mother  just  then. 

"Yes,  your  wedding  dress,  Frizzie,"  she  said,  "and  I 
cannot  tell  you  how  pretty  and  winning  you  look  in  it." 

I  fairly  beamed  upon  her,  and  of  course  she  imagined 
it  was  because  of  the  compliment  she  had  paid  me.  Per- 
haps that  had  something  to  do  with  it,  but  at  bottom  I  was 
actuated  by  another  motive. 

"Do  you  really  and  truly  think  I  am  pretty  and  winning 
in  my  -wedding  dress,  Mrs.  Clark  ?"  I  asked. 

"I  do,  Frizzie,"  she  replied.  "I  do.  You  satisfy  my 
every  wish.  I  always  intended  my  Norman  should  marry 


62  IN  THE  CURRENT 

only  the  prettiest  girl  in  the  county,  and  there's  none 
prettier  than  you." 

The  littleness  of  her !  I  turned  my  head  away  to  hide 
my  resentment  at  her  selfishness.  I  was  glad  I  had  been 
so  emphatic  in  speaking  about  my  wedding  dress,  and 
thereby  sowing  the  seeds  for  bitter  reflection  in  the  not 
distant  future.  Mrs.  Clark  was  in  need  of  a  good  lesson, 
and  I  vowed  to  my  secret  self  I  would  give  it  to  her. 

Mrs.  Clark  assisted  me  in  putting  the  dress  away  in  a 
corner  closet  which  I  cleared  specially  for  its  reception. 
We  descended  the  stairs  together,  Mrs.  Clark  with  her 
hand  laid  affectionately  on  my  shoulder,  and  in  the  parlor 
there  was  a  renewal  of  the  round  of  laughter  and  innocent 
chaffing.  The  congratulations  to  Norman  were  repeated. 
Again  I  insisted  I  was  no  less  an  object  of  congratulation, 
and  so  it  went  for  a  full  hour,  when  Mrs.  Clark  spoke  the 
last  word  with  the  exclamation : 

"Only  four  days  to  the  wedding  now,  Frizzie.  My, 
what  a  narrow  escape  you  gave  us !" 

They  drove  off  with  much  noisy  merriment.  Mrs. 
Clark,  of  course,  was  busy  with  her  cackling — even  busier 
than  usual — Mr.  Clark  thought  it  incumbent  to  join  in 
with  loud  expressions  of  satisfaction;  Norman  remem- 
bered something  to  shout  back  when  they  were  out 
through  the  gate;  and  even  father  so  far  forget  himself 
as  to  send  a  message  after  them  when  they  were  just 
turning  the  corner  out  of  sight. 

Away,  away  they  went,  and  I  almost  shivered  when 
father  drew  me  close  to  him  and  guided  me  indoors. 
What  a  transformation  had  been  wrought  in  them  all! 
Father  was  not  the  same  man  now.  He  warmed  toward 
me  in  frank  affection.  He  praised  me.  He  told  me  of 
his  admiration,  of  the  wonderful  depths  of  his  parental 
affection.  And  I  listened  respectfully.  I  concealed  my 


IN  THE  CURRENT  63 

temper.  I  did  not  betray  by  word  or  look  or  gesture  the 
spirit  of  revenge  that  stirred  within  me. 

I  was  not  so  contained  when  I  was  in  my  room,  with 
no  one  to  see.  I  stood  before  the  glass  and  let  my  feelings 
express  themselves  in  my  face.  My  good  looks  were  not 
enhanced,  but  I  did  not  care  for  that.  I  knew  the  reason 
for  the  change  in  them  one  and  all.  It  was  because  I  had 
consented  to  sacrifice  myself;  it  was  because  I  had  con- 
sented to  subject  my  will  to  the  will  of  father  and  to  the 
will  of  that  hated  woman. 

All  was  changed !  Because  I  offered  myself  a  sacrifice, 
it  was  peace  instead  of  war,  calm  instead  of  storm,  smiles 
instead  of  frowns.  All  changed — a  blithesome  spirit  in  the 
house ;  peals  of  laughter  in  the  hall ;  light  footsteps  on  the 
stairs ;  sunshine  and  springtime ;  incense  in  the  air,  and  in 
the  distance  the  soft,  clear  summons  of  the  wedding  bell ! 

Not  another  hard  word;  not  another  thought  for  me. 
No  kind,  sympathetic  curiosity  or  inquiry  as  to  whether 
every  little  fear,  every  little  doubt,  had  been  dispelled. 
Lonely  before,  lonelier  now !  I  had  rebelled ;  I  had  sur- 
rendered, and  all  was  well.  But  was  it  ?  Only  four  days 
to  the  wedding,  Mrs.  Clark  had  said.  Well,  well.  Four 
days! 


CHAPTER  XI 

ALL  was  in  readiness.  The  hurry  and  bustle,  the  com- 
ing and  the  going  were  past.  Aunts  and  cousins  and  other 
relatives  had  come  from  here  and  there  and  everywhere. 
I  made  the  acquaintance  of  most  of  them  for  the  first  time. 
They  saw  a  strong  family  resemblance  in  me ;  they  dinned 
my  ears  with  praise  of  Norman.  They  saw  Mrs.  Clark 
at  her  very  best,  and  they  praised  her,  too.  Some  of  them 
were  stopping  at  The  Beeches;  some  were  here  in  the 
house  with  father  and  me. 

I  took  the  preparations  quietly.  I  went  to  the  little 
church  in  Covey  and  approved  the  floral  decorations.  I 
was  permitted  to  peep  at  the  wedding  cake,  which  Mrs. 
Clark  herself  concocted  and  baked.  I  was  led  covertly  by 
the  proud  mother  into  the  ancestral  hall  of  the  Clarks,  and 
I  was  sincere  in  my  admiration  of  its  arrangement  for  the 
great  festivities.  It  was  there  the  wedding  feast  was  to 
be  held.  Thus  early  Mrs.  Clark  was  to  be  a  mother  to 
me ;  and  the  guests  would  not  be  cramped  and  crowded  as 
in  our  own  comparatively  little  home. 

The  last  good-night  had  been  said,  and  now  all  was  still. 
Father  was  the  last  to  leave  me.  He  kissed  me,  and  I 
thought  I  detected  tears  in  his  eyes.  "It  will  be  lonely 
here  without  you,  Frizzie,"  he  said,  and  he  little  thought 
of  what  he  spoke. 

I  had  no  regret  for  what  I  had  done.  Instead  of  that,  I 
was  filled  with  a  sense  of  elation,  of  joyous  expectancy 
and  of  sweet  content.  At  last  it  was  to  be  freedom.  Free- 

64 


IN  THE  CURRENT  65 

dom,  like  the  freedom  of  a  bird  on  the  wing ;  I  was  to  be 
free  as  the  wind  itself.  My  wind  blowing  over  the  sea, 
and  my  sea  rolling  as  it  willed — they  were  to  be  no  freer 
than  I !  The  way  had  opened.  It  was  impossible  that  I 
should  languish  there,  so  away  and  leave  dismay  behind. 

All  was  very,  very  still.  I  strained  to  listen,  and  the 
only  sound  I  heard  was  the  tick,  tick  of  the  little  clock  on 
the  table  near  the  head  of  my  bed.  The  only  light  in  the 
house  was  here  in  my  room.  My  room!  It  had  been 
mine  since  I  could  remember.  The  paper  was  mine,  the 
pictures  were  mine,  this  wicker  chair,  this  dressing-table 
— the  whole  room  was  mine !  There  had  been  no  restraint 
here,  and  for  that  I  was  thankful. 

I  had  bought  those  curtains — how  proud  I  was  that 
day ! — and  I  had  hung  them  there  where  they  were  now. 
I  had  arranged  that  corner,  with  its  chintz-covered  couch 
and  its  corded  and  tasseled  pillows.  Well,  good-by;  I 
would  hold  this  room  always  in  affection,  ayet  with  some- 
thing more  than  that.  It  was  all  mine  and  it  was  all  a  part 
of  me.  It  could  not  be  taken  from  me ;  I  could  not  lose 
it  if  I  would.  It  would  go  with  me  wherever  I  went; 
it  was  not  material  any  longer.  It  might  live  only  as  a 
memory,  but  a  memory  radiant  and  tender.  Here  to  this 
room  had  I  come  in  my  tears  of  joy  and  my  tears  of 
sorrow;  here  had  I  worn  my  moods  away;  here  had  I 
tried  to  reason ;  here  had  I  dreamed.  My  room — always, 
always,  my  room! 

I  took  out  my  wedding  dress  and  worked  myself  into  it 
and  gazed  at  myself  in  the  mirror.  Mrs.  Clark  was  right. 
I  was  pretty.  My  wedding  dress !  Taking  it  off  and  not 
to  put  it  on  to-morrow — forever!  Please  don't  persist. 
I  shrink  even  now  from  dwelling  upon  that  moment.  I 
put  the  dress  back  in  the  closet,  but  I  could  not  close  the 
door.  I  took  it  out  again  and  folded  it  on  the  bed  and 


66  IN  THE  CURRENT 

placed  it  in  my  little  satchel.    It  was  mine,  too,  and  some 
day — who  knows  ? 

I  packed  in  silver  articles  and  other  things,  and  placed 
the  satchel  at  the  door.  Then  I  sat  down  at  my  little  desk 
and  wrote  a  letter  to  father.  Would  you  care  to  read  it  ? 
Girls  write  such  foolish  letters,  you  know !  Still,  you  may 
be  curious,  and — well,  here  goes : 

"DEAR  FATHER, — You  needn't  try  to  follow  me.  I'll 
never  come  back ;  never,  never,  never !  I'm  sorry,  but  I 
can't  help  it.  I  can't  stand  Mrs.  Clark.  I  don't  love  Nor- 
man— I'm  sure  of  that  now.  I  told  you  that,  but  you 
didn't  seem  to  care.  You  just  wanted  me  to  please  your- 
self, not  to  please  myself.  Mrs.  Clark  was  the  same,  and 
I  won't  do  it — not  in  all  my  life.  If  you  had  not  been  so 
hard  and  commanding;  if  Mrs.  Clark  had  not  been  so 
little  and  mean  and  overbearing;  if  Norman  had  been  a 
little  more  of  himself  and  less  of  somebody  else,  all 
might  have  been  different,  but  it's  too  late  now.  I'm 
going,  and  I'm  glad,  I'm  rejoiced,  I'm  going!  And  now 
at  the  very  last  moment,  I'll  tell  you  that  if  happiness  never 
comes  to  me,  if  I  never  find  it,  I'll  never  blame  you.  No, 
never.  I'll  not  even  blame  Mrs.  Clark — I  forgive  her  now, 
I  forgive  you  one  and  all,  and  I  promise  that  always  I'll 
think  with  kindness  of  Norman.  It's  the  most  I  can  do. 
But  Norman  has  done  nothing.  I  might  have  learned  to 
love  him  had  he  been  left  alone — if  the  two  of  us  had  been 
free  to  meet  each  other  and  come  and  go  without  inter- 
ference from  you  all — so  much  wiser  than  ourselves !  It's 
only  this,  father :  I'm  going  away  to  live  my  own  life,  and 
not  to  have  some  one  else  try  to  live  it  for  me.  You 
wouldn't  want  somebody  else  to  live  your  life  for  you, 
and  I  won't,  although  I'm  only  a  girl.  I  tried  to  make  you 
see  Norman  as  I  saw  him — just  as  a  man,  a  plain,  every- 


IN  THE  CURRENT  67 

day  man.  That's  all,  and  I  cannot  resist  the  feeling  to 
wish  for  something  more.  Could  you,  father,  if  you  were 
in  my  place?  But  that's  foolish,  for  you're  just  a  man, 
too,  like  Norman.  I'll  be  all  right;  please  don't  worry 
about  me.  I've  thought  of  all  this  for  days  and  days,  and 
I  never  thought  of  the  wedding.  Good-by,  father.  Tell 
Norman  I  wanted  to  write  to  him,  but  I  was  afraid." 

Nothing  more,  except  the  little  word  "Frizzie"  at  the 
end.  I  folded  the  letter,  sealed  it  in  an  envelope  and 
slipped  it  under  a  corner  of  the  inkstand.  I  crossed  to 
the  dressing-table  and  took  my  silver  purse — a  gift  from 
Norman — and  went  to  the  door  and  lifted  the  satchel.  I 
felt  a  rush  of  emotion.  I  let  the  satchel  fall  from  my 
hand,  and  ran  back  to  the  bed  and  dropped  on  my  knees. 
I  was  old-fashioned  enough  for  that,  and,  thank  God,  I'm 
old-fashioned  enough  for  it  yet.  Father's  training  had 
not  been  all  in  vain. 

I  arose  composed  and  with  a  sense  of  comfort.  But 
again  I  turned  from  the  door,  this  time  to  turn  the  lamp 
low,  until  the  room  was  suffused  with  soft  shadows.  I  went 
out  into  the  hall,  there  rested  the  satchel  very  softly  on  the 
floor,  and  slipped  back  once  more.  I  stood  still  with  my 
hands  clasped  together,  between  the  bed  and  the  dressing-- 
table. It  seemed  to  me  there  was  a  great  peace  there,  and 
the  peace  seemed  to  mock  the  restlessness  in  my  heart.  I 
ran  swiftly  and  pressed  my  lips  against  each  of  the  four 
walls,  then  passing  out  rapidly,  as  if  afraid  to  trust  my 
feelings,  I  closed  the  door  behind  me. 

I  went  noiselessly  down  to  the  turn  of  the  stairs,  where 
instinctively  I  stopped  to  listen.  Not  a  sound.  I  went 
down  a  few  steps  more,  and  in  the  first  glimmer  of  the 
dawn  I  saw  a  figure  between  the  portieres  leading  into  the 
parlor.  My  heart  almost  stopped  beating.  I  was  motion- 


68  IN  THE  CURRENT 

less  in  genuine  terror.  I  knew  it  to  be  Mother  Ann,  but 
I  could  not  utter  a  word. 

It  must  have  been  a  minute  we  remained  there  motion- 
less and  silent.  Gradually  I  made  out  that  her  dear  old 
face  was  turned  toward  me  in  kindliness,  and  that  she  was 
as  frail  under  emotion  as  I  myself.  My  fear  left  me,  but 
I  could  not  keep  back  the  tears.  I  was  almost  choking. 
I  put  down  the  satchel  and  with  what  little  order  I  could 
command,  went  straight  to  her.  She  held  her  arms  wide 
to  me,  and  folded  me  to  her  breast. 

"Oh,  Mother  Ann,  Mother  Ann,"  I  sobbed,  and  could 
not  say  more. 

"I  knew  this  was  what  it  was  coming  to,"  she  said, 
bravely  drying  her  eyes.  "I  knew  it.  But  you're  not 
going,  Miss  Frizzie?" 

I  pulled  myself  away.  "Yes,  I  am  going,  Mother 
Ann,"  I  said.  "Why  should  I  stay  here?" 

"Hush,  hush,  Miss  Frizzie,  or  they'll  hear  you."  I 
quailed  in  fear.  "Come  in  here,  into  the  kitchen,  child, 
and  we'll  close  the  door  and  talk."  I  followed  her,  and 
found  a  lamp  burning  and  two  dining-room  chairs  beside 
the  kitchen  table. 

"You  expected  all  this?"  I  asked. 

"I  saw  the  light  under  the  door  of  your  room,  Miss 
Frizzie." 

I  was  not  pleased.  Neither  was  I  flattered.  I  thought 
I  was  safe  in  possession  of  my  secret,  yet  Mother  Ann 
knew  all.  She  gently  but  firmly  pressed  me  into  one  of 
the  chairs,  and  seated  herself  opposite  me. 

"Do  you  know  what  you're  about,  Miss  Frizzie?"  she 
asked.  "You're  going  to  New  York,  and  tell  me  now, 
what  will  you  do  when  you  get  there  ?" 

"What  shall  I  do  here,  Mother  Ann?" 

"I'm  ashamed  of  you,  Miss  Frizzie,"  she  said.  "Where's 


IN  THE  CURRENT  69 

the  spirit  in  you?  Stand  up  and  say  you  won't  marry 
him.  And  if  nobody  backs  you  I'll  back  you.  I'll  back 
you,  Miss  Frizzie,  if  it  means  that  I'll  never  pass  word 
with  the  rector  again.  Stand  up  this  morning  when 
they're  all  here,  and  say  you  won't  marry  him." 

"I  can't,  Mother  Ann,  I  can't." 

"Then  stand  up  in  the  church  and  say  you  won't.  Fix 
your  mind  on  it  now.  Say  it  over  and  over  to  yourself 
when  you're  driving  to  the  church,  so  that  you'll  have  the 
courage ;  and  at  the  last  minute  rise  up  and  say  you  won't . 
Do  that  and  it'll  be  an  end  of  it.  It'll  be  all  over  and 
you'll  come  back  singing  to  me,  and  in  a  month  or  two 
some  young  fellow  will  come  riding  down  the  road  and 
carry  you  off.  That's  what  you  want,  isn't  it,  Miss 
Frizzie?" 

"I'll  go  away,  Mother  Ann,  I'll  go  away,"  I  said. 

"You  mustn't  do  that,  you  mustn't,  Miss  Frizzie. 
Think  of  what  it  means  to  your  father.  Think  of  what  it 
means  to  me.  You're  almost  my  very  own,  Miss  Frizzie. 
I  can't  bear  to  see  you  leave  us.  Why,  child,  it  was  you 
kept  me  from  fretting  my  life  away  over  that  scamp  of  a 
husband  of  mine.  It  was  me  raised  you,  Miss  Frizzie. 
If  I've  never  said  so  before  to  a  soul  but  myself,  you're 
my  child  as  much  as  your  father's.  It  was  me  put  the 
woman  in  you,  and  it's  me  that's  proud  of  you  this 
minute." 

"I'm  going,  Mother  Ann,"  I  said.  "I  have  the  two 
hundred  dollars  father  has  given  me." 

"If  it  was  myself  I  wouldn't  care,"  she  replied.  "But 
to  turn  you  out  like  this,  Miss  Frizzie !  It's  like  turning 
you  out  to  a  pack  of  wolves." 

"I  will  go,  Mother  Ann,"  I  said  firmly. 

"I  knew  all  along  this  would  be  the  end  of  it,"  she 
lamented.  "I  saw  it  in  you,  Miss  Frizzie.  Not  one  of 


yo  IN  THE  CURRENT 

them  could  reada  you  like  me,  and  how  could  they,  with  me 
reading  you  since  you  had  the  strength  to  put  a  foot  under 
you  ?  If  there  had  been  any  one  else  but  me  ?  But  what 
could  I  do  in  all  this?  If  I'd  said  a  word  your  father 
would  have  snapped  my  head  off  and  sent  me  out  of  the 
house — away  from  you.  I  couldn't  take  chances  with 
that,  and  I  couldn't  begin  to  tell  you  what  to  do,  as  they 
tried  to  tell  you.  One  woman  can't  tell  another  woman, 
not  even  if  one  woman's  gray-headed  and  the  other's 
turning  sixteen.  If  they'd  only  let  you  alone — but  they 
did  they  best  they  knew,  Miss  Frizzie.  Don't  forget  that. 
Your  father  used  to  be  kind  and  all  that  to  your  mother, 
but  he  never  loved  her  the  way  her  big  heart  wanted  him 
to.  It  was  me  saw  that  long  ago,  and  your  father's  doing 
by  you  as  he  did  by  your  mother,  Miss  Frizzie — he's  doing 
all  he  knows,  all  that's  in  him,  and  you  can't  ask  more  of 
him.  You  can't  make  over  people  to  suit  you,  Miss 
Frizzie,  and  there's  more  women  like  Mrs.  Clark  in  the 
world  than  there's  women  like  you  and  me.  I'm  older 
than  you  are,  and  that's  gospel  truth ;  and  lots  of  women 
would  do  the  same  as  Mrs.  Clark,  and  think  your  money 
would  look  well  and  come  in  handy  added  to  the  money 
of  her  son.  It's  only  money  makes  marrying  a  bother. 
But,  money  or  not,  you  can't  tell  what  will  happen  after 
the  wedding.  Look  at  me,  Miss  Frizzie.  I  just  walked 
off  to  the  church,  and  in  six  months  I  was  a  grass  widow ; 
and  I'm  a  grass  widow  yet.  If  there'd  been  any  money 
between  us  maybe  he  wouldn't  have  run  away,  so  you  see 
there's  two  sides  to  every  case."  In  the  brightening  light 
I  saw  the  anxious  look  fade  from  her  face,  and  she  smiled 
as  she  bent  nearer.  "I  don't  blame  you,  Miss  Frizzie.  I 
might  do  it  myself.  But  you  won't  go,  you  won't  go? 
Take  an  old  woman's  advice  for  once.  Stay  and  fight 
it  out." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  71 

"I  won't,  Mother  Ann,"  I  said.  "I  am  going  at  once." 
I  arose,  and  she  caught  me  by  the  arms. 

"I  can't  stand  it,  Miss  Frizzie,  you  don't  know  what 
you're  facing,"  she  entreated.  "Tell  me,  who  put  this  in 
your  head  ?  There  was  some  one.  I've  known  it  all  along. 
It  was  in  your  eyes,  which  were  dancing,  when  you  came 
back  that  day  with  the  wild  flowers  all  crushed  and  broken 
in  your  hands.  Tell  me  ?" 

"How  could  you  guess?"  I  asked.  "Mother  Ann,  you 
saw  me  on  the  knoll?" 

She  hung  her  head  for  a  moment  in  guilt,  then  she 
looked  at  me  boldly.  "I  only  happened  out  there,  Miss 
Frizzie,  but  if  that  hadn't  been  it,  maybe  I'd  have  gone 
any  way;  for  you're  the  very  life  of  me,  and  all  that's 
wrong  is  that  you've  had  not  a  mother's  soul  to  fit  into 
your  own  and  be  over  you." 

"I  forgive  you,  Mother  Ann,"  I  said. 

"Don't  go  near  that  young  Wesson,"  she  went  on.  She 
saw  my  look  of  amazement.  "I  know  him.  He's  been 
down  near  here  every  summer  these  years  and  years.  I've 
heard  about  him,  and  you  haven't,  and  he  means  only 
harm  to  you,  Miss  Frizzie.  Never  go  near  him  unless 
he's  promised,  and  it's  to  marry  you.  I  can't  bear  it;  I 
won't  let  you  go  like  that,  Miss  Frizzie.  I  won't ;  I'll  call 
your  father  and  hold  you." 

"Don't  you  dare  do  that,  Mother  Ann,"  I  said. 

"No,  I  won't,  I  didn't  think  when  I  said  it,"  she  replied. 
"It's  his  own  doing  and  not  yours,  Miss  Frizzie,  but  you'll 
not  let  Wesson  take  your  soul  away  from  you?  Miss 
Frizzie,  if  you  only  knew  the  danger  you're  running  into ! 
If  Wesson  doesn't  mean  to  marry  you  he  means  to  sell 
you,  and  you  love  him,  Miss  Frizzie,  you  do — I  know 
that — I've  seen  it  in  you.  Does  he  love  you,  Miss  Frizzie? 
If  you  tell  me  he  does,  I'll  let  you  go  and  I'll  watch  for 


72  IN  THE  CURRENT 

you  to  come  back  happy.  Does  he  love  you,  Miss 
Frizzie  ?" 

"I  feel  it  in  my  heart,  Mother  Ann,"  I  answered. 

"Then  I'm  hardly  frightened  to  let  you  go,  Miss 
Frizzie,  for  the  heart  is  the  only  guard  we  women  have. 
But  be  sure,  be  sure,  for  we  all  make  mistakes." 

I  moved  to  the  door.  "I  won't  make  a  mistake,  Mother 
Ann,"  I  said. 

She  ran  after  me  and  seized  me  in  her  arms.  "Oh,  I 
can't  let  you  go,  I  can't,  I  can't,"  she  cried.  "Stay  and 
fight  it  out.  Stay  and  have  Mr.  Wesson  come  to  the 
house  and  stand  up  beside  you  and  say  he'll  marry  you, 
and  it'll  be  all  right." 

I  kissed  her.  "Good-by,  Mother  Ann,"  I  said.  "I  am 
fully  decided,  and  if  Mr.  Wesson  were  to  come  here  now 
to  marry  me  I  should  go  just  the  same." 

She  embraced  me,  and  caressed  me  with  tears  streaming 
down  her  cheeks.  "I  won't  say  more,  Miss  Frizzie.  But, 
God  knows,  if  I  hadn't  made  a  mess  of  my  own  life  I'd 
be  with  them  in  trying  to  make  you  marry  Mr.  Clark.  But 
it  would  be  better  you  were  carried  home  dead  than  mar- 
ried against  your  will.  Good-by,  Frizzie,  and  God  look 
down  on  you.  If  you  want  me  call  me  and  I'll  come — 
your  own  Mother  Ann." 

I  turned  at  the  gate.  Mother  Ann  was  in  the  door, 
trying  to  lift  her  hand.  Where  the  wood  cut  off  the  lawn, 
I  turned  again.  She  still  was  there,  and  her  hand  went 
to  her  lips.  I  took  another  step,  and  the  corner  of  the 
wood  entered  as  a  wedge  between  us. 


CHAPTER  XII 

IMAGINE  me !  Fit  me  together  bit  by  bit,  in  my  odd, 
modest,  neat,  little  country  dress,  my  foolish  little  hat,  my 
funny  little  satchel,  with  its  imitation  leather  and  its 
shining  brass  clasps,  and  my  frank,  confiding,  weather- 
blown  face.  I  know  you  will  laugh.  I  know  you  will  say : 

"Same  old  story!  They  all  come  to  the  city  and  the 
city  is  hard  on  them — the  goody-goody  girls !" 

Laugh  away.  I  don't  care.  That's  the  way  of  the  world 
when  it  does  not  pause  to  think.  Laugh,  laugh!  You 
have  truth  on  your  side,  and,  I  maintain,  so  have  I.  It  is 
the  same  old  story,  but,  happy  fact,  there  are  variations 
to  every  story,  just  as  I  hope  you  will  find  variations  in 
mine.  Pray,  what  is  the  whole  world  itself  only  an  old 
story  ?  Of  course,  it  is,  and  yet  I'm  not  satisfied  with  that 
narrow  definition.  Now  and  then  when  I  wonder  what  I 
am,  I  feel  that  with  each  new  experience,  with  each  dis- 
covery of  a  new  truth,  the  world  renews  its  youth.  You 
of  the  cities !  Who  are  you,  what  are  you  that  you  dare 
to  laugh  at  me?  You  cannot  answer?  Neither  can  I. 
We  mortals  all  are  such  enigmas ;  we  all  are  so  unchari- 
table! The  child  of  the  city  is  lost  in  the  country;  the 
child  of  the  country  is  lost  in  the  city !  There  we  are — 
give  and  take  on  both  sides.  The  score  is  even  between 
us,  and  strangers  in  city  or  country  are  not  lost  for  long. 
We  are  adaptable  creatures ;  revolution  in  our  lives,  after 
the  first  shock  of  surprise,  becomes  more  or  less  of  an 
unconscious  process.  Isn't  that  it? 

73 


74  IN  THE  CURRENT 

But  there,  enough  of  my  homely,  apparent  philosophy ! 
I  know  it  is  silly  of  me  to  ramble  off  in  this  manner, 
especially  when  everybody  is  philosopher  to  himself.  I 
implore  your  pardon  for  these  harmless  digressions.  It 
is  only  that  I  cannot  resist  the  temptation  to  show  how 
smart  I  am;  in  fact,  this  weakness  has  become  a  habit 
with  me. 

The  city  had  a  disappointing  effect  upon  me.  I  think 
the  first  glimpse  of  a  city  is  like  the  first  view  of  Niagara. 
I  did  not  stand  in  awe  of  Niagara  until  I  had  seen  it  three 
times.  Now  when  I  gaze  upon  it  I  ask  myself  if  I  ever 
shall  find  it  within  me  to  accord  it  appreciation?  The 
might,  the  majesty,  the  sameness,  the  variety,  the  eternity 
of  it !  So  with  the  imperious,  complacent,  colossal  place 
to  which  I  turned  my  face.  I  did  not  realize  the  magni- 
tude, the  substantial  grandeur,  of  it;  the  mass  and  the 
rush  of  things  were  too  much  for  my  puny  senses  to  em- 
brace. It  was  a  magnificent  muddle ;  it  was  a  living  pano- 
rama, which  it  took  me  months  and  months  to  dissect  a 
little  and  examine  in  detail. 

In  the  train  I  had  time  for  reflection,  and  I  made  two 
resolutions.  One  was  to  put  my  home  out  of  mind,  the 
other  was  to  carry  myself  with  independence.  I  never 
had  been  a  dependent,  I  assured  myself,  and  I  could  not 
be  one  now.  I  vowed  I  would  support  myself;  I  enter- 
tained pride  in  what  I  took  to  be  sturdiness  of  disposition. 
Without  the  slightest  knowledge  of  anything  to  which  I 
might  turn  my  hand,  I  still  was  supremely  confident  there 
must  be  for  me  some  place,  some  nook,  some  cranny, 
where  I  might  be  cramped,  perhaps — but,  above  all 
things,  free. 

I  was  all  contrast,  too.  I  remember  I  carried  a  card 
in  the  hollow  of  my  left  hand  under  my  glove,  and  that 
I  pressed  the  tips  of  my  fingers  into  it,  lest  by  an  impos- 


IN  THE  CURRENT  75 

sible  chance  it  might  be  wafted  away.  I  even  presented 
it  reluctantly  to  the  girl  who  received  me  in  the  entrance 
to  Mr.  Wesson's  office. 

"Why,  this  is  the  card  of  Wesson,  Jr.,"  said  the  girl, 
in  a  tone  of  surprise  that  caused  me  much  embarrass- 
ment. 

"Mr.  Wesson  told  me  to  present  it  here  and  he  would 
know  it  was  from  me,"  I  replied. 

"You're  an  innocent  kid,  for  fair,"  said  the  girl,  with 
cool  emphasis.  "Oh,  you  needn't  look  indignant,"  she 
continued.  "I  know  what  that  means."  She  inspected  me 
critically  from  head  to  foot.  "Well,  I'll  say  for  you,"  she 
observed,  "you're  the  best-looker  of  all  that's  been 
here  yet." 

"What  do  you  mean  ?"    I  asked  with  bitter  feeling. 

"I  mean  nothing,"  was  her  reply,  in  a  rising  inflection 
that  confessed  evasion.  "But  I'll  tell  you  this  much,  Miss 
Simplicity,"  she  added.  "You  don't  know  young  Wesson 
like  I  know  him,  and  if  you  only  knew  him  half  as  well 
you'd  steer  clear  of  him." 

"I  don't  understand,"  I  said. 

"Of  course  you  don't,  you  little  child  of  the  country," 
she  responded,  in  a  voice  that  was  rude  and  yet  not  with- 
out a  ring  of  sympathy  toward  me.  "It's  the  same  with  all 
us  girls — we  don't  understand  until  understanding  is  the 
only  satisfaction  we've  got  left.  But  wait  here,  wait 
here,"  she  added  with  sudden  animation,  "I  like  your 
kind,  and  I'll  find  out  if  Mr.  Wesson  is  in." 

She  disappeared  through  a  swinging  door,  and  in  a  few 
moments  returned  precipitately. 

"I'm  sorry,  but  Mr.  Wesson  has  just  stepped  out,  and 
it's  doubtful  when  he  will  return,"  she  said.  "It's  just 
as  likely  as  not  he  won't  be  back  before  to-morrow.  He's 
uncertain." 


76  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"I  must  see  him ;  I  must  see  him,"  I  said  in  alarm.  "I 
cannot  wait  until  to-morrow." 

"Have  you  nothing  else  to  do  but  wait  for  him?"  she 
asked. 

"Nothing,  nothing  at  all,"  I  replied,  and  her  face 
lighted  up. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,"  she  said.  "We'll  go  to 
lunch.  You'll  be  my  guest.  We'll  be  gone  an  hour,  and 
then  we'll  come  back  here  and  maybe  Mr.  Wesson  will 
be  in." 

"Oh,  thank  you,"  I  said,  and  she  caught  me  and  pushed 
me  almost  roughly  into  the  public  hall  near  the  elevators. 

"Don't  move  from  there  until  I  join  you,"  she  com- 
manded. She  rushed  back  into  the  office,  and  in  a  few 
moments  came  running  out  again,  pinning  on  her  hat, 
and  with  her  coat  slung  carelessly  over  her  left  arm.  She 
hurried  me  to  an  elevator,  and  it  was  not  until  we  merged 
with  the  current  of  humanity  in  the  street  that  she  ceased 
to  urge  me.  Then  she  released  a  nervous  hold  on  my  arm 
and  seemed  to  breathe  easier. 

"Sometimes  luck  does  favor  me,"  she  laughed,  and  I 
walked  beside  her  puzzling  over  the  remark. 

Five  minutes  later  we  stepped  from  an  express  elevator 
into  a  restaurant  covering  the  top  floor  of  a  building, 
reaching  three  hundred  feet  above  the  sidewalk.  We 
were  on  the  twenty-fifth  floor,  and  from  the  windows  to 
east  and  west  I  saw  the  city  spreading  out  like  an  illu- 
minated map.  The  girl  pointed  out  buildings  here  and 
there. 

"That  grimy  little  place  no  bigger  than  a  drygoods  box 
is  St.  Paul's  Church,"  she  said.  "In  there  the  sexton  will 
show  you  George  Washington's  pew.  I've  never  wanted 
to  see  that  pew,  though;  it  makes  me  creepy  to  think  of 
anything  so  old." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  77 

"It  is  more  than  a  hundred  years  old,"  I  said.  "I 
wonder  will  the  pew  and  the  church  be  there  a  hundred 
years  from  now." 

"What  difference  does  it  make  about  that  ?"  she  replied. 
"A  hundred  years  is  too  far  for  any  woman  to  think 
ahead.  But  before  we  go  any  further  into  the  future, 
we'd  better  think  of  something  to  eat." 

"Why  did  you  say  after  we  had  left  Mr.  Wesson's  of- 
fice, 'Sometimes  luck  does  favor  me'?"  I  asked,  when 
we  had  reached  ice  cream  and  coffee. 

"You've  been  thinking  over  that,  have  you?"  said  the 
girl.  "I  was  wondering  if  you  would.  Well,  I  don't  mind 
telling  you;  I  may  as  well  get  rid  of  it  now  as  later.  I 
said  I  was  lucky  sometimes  just  because  I  managed  to 
give  the  slip  to  young  Wesson." 

"You  mean  Mr.  Wesson  was  in  the  office  when  I 
called?"  I  asked. 

"That's  exactly  what  I  mean,"  she  replied.  I  felt  like 
flying  at  her.  I  trembled  with  anger,  but  the  girl  sat 
quiet  and  apparently  unconcerned. 

"You  had  no  right  to  do  that,"  I  said,  "and  you  must 
take  me  to  Mr.  Wesson  without  delay.  If  you  don't  I 
shall  go  to  him  myself  and  at  once." 

"Before  you  start,"  she  said,  "let  me  say  a  few  words 
to  you." 

"Why  should  I  let  you  talk  to  me?"  I  replied  angrily. 
"I  don't  know  who  you  are.  I  don't  even  know  your 
name." 

"That's  easily  settled,"  she  responded  with  cool  assur- 
ance. "My  name's  Winifred  Caine,  but  everybody  calls 
me  Winnie.  They've  got  a  sort  of  familiar-like  name  for 
you,  haven't  they  ?" 

"I'm  known  as  Frizzie,  but  my  real  name  is  Helen — 


78  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Helen  Peabody,"  I  replied  without  thinking.  "But  you've 
been  very  unkind  to  me." 

"You  won't  say  that  when  you  know  me  better,  Friz- 
zie,"  she  said  with  an  ease  that  compelled  laughter  on  my 
part.  She  spoke  my  name  as  if  she  had  known  me  for 
years,  and  strongly  as  I  was  inclined  to  it  I  could  not  con- 
tinue to  make  a  show  of  anger  toward  her. 

"If  you  promise  to  take  me  to  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  said,  "I 
shall  be  only  too  glad  to  listen  to  all  you've  got  to  say, 
Winnie." 

"Well,  I  declare,  who  would  have  expected  that  of 
you!"  she  responded.  "Winnie!  Winnie,  eh!  You're 
getting  on,  getting  on  fast,  let  me  tell  you.  But  here  now, 
this  is  no  time  for  foolishness.  It  wasn't  for  fun  or 
charity  I  ran  the  risk  of  losing  my  job  by  taking  you  out 
of  Wesson's  office.  Not  that  I  care  a  whole  lot  about  the 
old  job,  but  it's  easier  holding  it  than  looking  for  an- 
other one.  Do  you  want  me  to  talk  plain  to  you  ?" 

"Why^  of  course,  if  there  is  anything  to  talk  plain 
about,"  I  replied. 

"Thanks,  I  would  have  talked  out  whether  you  had 
said  no  or  yes — just  the  same.  I  was  watching  for  you 
when  you  came  to-day." 

"How  did  you  know  to  watch  ?"  I  asked,  surprised. 

"I  heard  your  friend  Wesson  talking.  That's  all.  Of 
course,  he  doesn't  know  I  heard,  and,  of  course,  you  won't 
tell  him?" 

"I  promise  you  I  won't,"  I  said. 

"There's  nothing  more  to  tell,"  she  said,  then  with  vigor 
she  continued :  "But  only  this  much :  Don't  you  trust  that 
fellow  Wesson.  Don't  trust  any  man.  What  did  you 
come  up  here  from  the  country  for?  Because  Wesson 
told  you  the  city  was  the  place  for  you  ?  That  was  it,  of 
course — I  don't  have  to  b«  told  to  know  that.  I've  seen 


IN  THE  CURRENT  79 

hundreds  and  hundreds  of  girls  like  you  come  from  the 
country  in  my  time,  and  let  me  tell  you  it's  taken  not 
more  than  a  few  months  to  make  most  of  them  so  there 
own  fathers  and  mothers  wouldn't  recognize  them.  What 
does  Wesson  care  for  you,  or  any  other  girl  like  you? 
Are  you  in  his  set  ?  Have  you  millions  to  set  against  his 
millions,  or  the  millions  his  father,  when  he  dies,  will 
throw  to  him  like  corn  to  swine?  Do  you  think  you're 
going  to  marry  him,  then  ?  Get  all  crazy  notions  like  that 
out  of  your  head.  Don't  go  near  Wesson.  Stick  by  me 
and  I'll  stick  by  you,  and  with  the  help  of  us  both  you'll 
pull  through ;  and  when  the  day  conies  for  you  to  go  back 
to  the  country  where  you  came  from,  you  can  go  without 
being  ashamed."  IF 

"I'll  never  go  back  to  the  country,"  I  avoXved. 

"Well,  that  can  wait  awhile,"  retorted  the  girl.  "What 
are  you  going  to  do  now  ?  Are  you  going  back  with  me 
to  Wesson's  office  ?  You'll  find  him  there.  I'll  take  your 
card  into  him,  and  you'll  walk  into  his  private  office  and 
it'll  be  the  same  as  if  we  never  sat  here  together,  with  me 
making  a  fool  of  myself  by  ever  opening  my  mouth." 

"I'm  in  doubt,  Winnie,"  I  said  earnestly. 

'Tut  it  off  till  to-morrow  then,"  she  advised.  "Get  a 
home,  get  some  place  or  other  behind  you  before  you 
go  near  his  office.  What  would  you  do  or  say  now  if  you 
went  to  him  without  a  room  or  some  place  to  cling  to? 
Here,  I've  got  it.  Go  and  deposit  yourself  in  that  hotel 
for  women.  I've  never  been  near  it,  but  it's  a  fine  place, 
even  if  it  hasn't  got  all  the  disadvantages  of  a  home." 

"I  will  go  there,"  I  said,  moved  to  it  more  by  her  breezy 
assertiveness  and  odd  turn  of  speech,  so  new  and  amusing 
to  me,  than  by  faith  in  her  contrary  argument. 

"You'll  like  it  up  there,"  she  went  on.  "Anyhow,  a  few 
days  will  give  you  a  chance  to  look  around  and  pick  a 


8o  IN  THE  CURRENT 

boarding-house.  You've  got  to  come  down  to  the 
boarding-house,  you  know;  most  of  the  boarding-house 
plants  come  straight  from  the  country.  That's  what 
makes  boarding-houses  so  interesting.  But  you  can't  tell 
what  will  turn  up.  Get  up  to  the  hotel  first.  Take  a  car 
outside  here  in  Park  Row,  and  it'll  land  you  near  the  door. 
If  they  want  to  give  you  a  dollar  and  a  half  room,  ask  for 
one  at  a  dollar.  You've  got  a  dollar  with  you,  haven't 
you?" 

"I've  got  two  hundred  dollars,"  I  said. 

"What !  You've  got  two  hundred  dollars  ?  Whew,  say 
that  again — two  hundred  dollars !  If  I  had  two  hundred 
dollars  I'd  take  a  trip  to  Europe.  But  here,  you've  got  to 
start,  because  I've  got  to  show  up  in  the  office.  I'll  see 
you  this  evening.  Promise  me  you  won't  telegraph,  tele- 
phone, write  or  show  your  nose  near  Wesson  before  I 
come  up  to  you.  I'll  be  there  at  seven-thirty.  You  can 
stand  waiting  till  then,  Frizzie  ?  I  like  that  name,  Frizzie 
— it's  'cute  enough  for  a  song." 

"I  promise  everything,"  I  replied.  I  was  attracted  to 
her,  and  in  the  street  I  held  out  my  hand  and  said  in  all 
sincerity:  "You  must  like  me,  Winnie." 

"Oh,  I'll  like  you  all  right,"  she  said.  "I  wouldn't  be 
doing  this  if  I  didn't  like  you  more  than  a  little  bit,  Miss 
Simplicity." 

"You  called  me  that  before,"  I  reproved. 

"It  fits  you,  doesn't  it?"  she  retorted.  "Off  with  you 
now.  There's  your  car  coming.  If  I  don't  run  I'll  get  the 
bounce  sure."  With  a  parting,  "See  you  to-night,"  she 
was  lost  in  the  restless  throng,  overflowing  the  sidewalk 
into  the  street.  And  the  throng,  never  caring,  brushed 
past  me  on  both  sides,  leaving  me  lonelier  than  I  ever  had 
been  on  the  deserted  shore  of  the  sea  I  used  to  call 
my  own. 


CHAPTER   XIII 

So  THIS  was  what  it  had  come  to !  What  a  cold,  bare, 
barren,  cramped  place  was  this  new  room  of  mine.  I  had 
not  the  audacity  to  call  it  a  home.  With  narrow  shelves 
around  the  walls  it  might  have  served  in  a  pinch  for  the 
kitchen  closet  in  which  Mother  Ann  every  summer  stored 
preserves,  and  which  I  had  raided  so  often.  A  miniature 
bed,  a  miniature  dresser,  a  miniature  chair,  a  miniature 
closet,  set  in  a  miniature  triangle  in  a  miniature  corner ;  a 
miniature  window,  miniature  curtains,  and  a  miniature 
design  in  the  miniature  rug  on  the  floor !  All  these  and 
a  few  other  miniature  effects  might  have  appeared  of 
normal  size  to  some  people,  but  to  me — well,  suppose  I 
had  had  my  roomy  wicker  chair  where  should  I  put  it? 
The  bed  or  the  chair  would  have  to  go,  and  as  I  could  not 
sleep  out  in  the  hall  the  bed  would  gain  preference  and 
remain  because  of  its  vulgar' utility.  Perish  all  sentiment 
in  a  hole  in  the  wall ! 

Strange  though  it  may  seem,  I  was  amused  by  my  first 
experience  of  one  of  New  York's  pet  institutions— the 
compressed  room,  like  compressed  dog-biscuit  and  com- 
pressed breakfast- food !  New  York  builds  high,  I  found, 
and  it  also  builds  close  together. 

I  went  to  the  window,  parted  the  curtains  and  looked 
out.  I  saw  acres  of  flat  roofs,  all  a  murky  brown,  with 
hundreds  of  bleak  chimney  tops,  like  broken  trunks  in  a 
wood  swept  out  of  life  and  left  desolate.  Far  in  the 
distance  I  saw  a  church  spire.  That  was  a  comfort,  but 

Si 


82  IN  THE  CURRENT 

between  me  and  the  church  lived  how  many  strangers, 
and  what  church  was  it?  It  was  not  the  friendly,  rolling 
voice  of  the  tide  that  rose  to  me  in  that  hotel  window — it 
was  the  hard  beat  of  feet  and  the  sharp  ring  of  wheels, 
making  hard  and  wearing  out,  I  thought,  the  hearts  of 
men.  No  accented  cadence,  no  thrill  of  sweet  music  in 
that  jarring  swell !  Gone  was  my  country,  gone  was  my 
sea,  and  as  I  looked  out  I  wondered  why  I  had  given 
them  up  for  colorless  monuments  of  mortar  and  brick 
and  steel. 

I  let  the  curtains  fall  together  and  went  and  sat  on  the 
side  of  the  bed.  It  was  the  hour  in  which  I  was  to  have 
become  a  bride.  That  was  true,  and  what  of  it?  I  felt 
perfectly  composed,  perfectly  contented.  I  had  followed 
my  will.  Life  was  beginning.  Were  I  turning  from  the 
altar  now  on  Norman's  arm  life  would  be  at  an  end.  I 
had  no  fear ;  my  mind  was  at  rest.  I  felt  a  delicious  sense 
of  physical  weariness.  I  dropped  back  with  my  head  on 
the  pillow,  and  the  past  and  the  present  alike  were 
blotted  out. 

I  was  awakened  by  the  buzz  of  the  telephone  near  the 
door.  The  room  was  thick  in  the  gloom  of  early  night. 
I  groped  for  the  electric  button  and  turned  on  the  light. 
I  took  down  the  telephone  receiver,  found  Winnie  was 
downstairs,  and  requested  her  to  come  up.  I  went  out  to 
receive  her  in  the  hall,  but  she  rushed  past  me,  spread  a 
newspaper  on  the  bed  and  pointed  to  glaring  headlines. 

"It  that  all  about  you — the  headlines  and  the  picture?" 
she  demanded. 

"What  picture?"  I  asked. 

"There — there  in  that  paper  under  your  eyes." 

I  looked  down  and  there,  sure  enough,  was  an  unmis- 
takable likeness  of  myself ;  and  beside  it  was  a  picture  of 
Norman,  while  below  both  was  a  picture  of  the  church, 


IN  THE  CURRENT  83 

with  a  glimpse  of  the  floral  decorations  for  the  wedding. 
A  fanciful  artist  had  sketched  a  grief-stricken  Cupid  on 
the  steps  of  the  church.  Cupid's  face  was  woebegone, 
tears  were  rolling  down  his  cheeks ;  there  was  a  pathetic 
expression  in  his  eyes,  and  in  his  hands  were  a  broken 
bow  and  a  broken  arrow.  I  raised  my  head  slowly  and 
looked  at  Winnie  in  dumb  bewilderment. 

"Read  those  headlines,"  she  said,  and  promptly  she 
read  them  for  me :  "  'Deserted  at  the  altar!  Look  at 
them — in  black  ink  three  inches  high  every  letter  of  them. 
Listen  to  this  :  'Suffolk  County  society  gets  biggest  shock 
in  years.  Rector's  daughter  flees  from  fiance  four  hours 
before  time  for  wedding.  Believed  to  have  eloped.  Young 
millionaire  of  fashionable  Southampton  set  said  to  be 
winning  suitor.  Rumor  of  an  early  morning  night  by 
automobile.' "  She  dropped  the  paper  and  stared  at  me. 

"Oh,  Winnie,  what  shall  I  do?"  I  said.  "I  never 
thought." 

"Of  course,  you  never  thought,"  she  replied,  "but  you 
thought  enough  to  keep  all  this  from  me.  I  guess,  you're 
not  as  innocent  as  you  look." 

"Oh,  Winnie,  what  shall  I  do  ?"  I  repeated. 

"Stay  where  you  are,"  she  replied.  "They'll  never  think 
of  looking  for  you  here.  They'll  think  a  women's  hotel 
is  the  last  place  a  woman  would  hide.  You  needn't 
worry.  New  York's  a  big  place." 

"How  did  they  get  all  that  in  the  paper,  Winnie?" 

"The  papers  thrive  on  stuff  like  this,"  she  replied.  "If 
it  wasn't  for  fool  women  there'd  be  no  papers." 

"You  don't  call  me  a  fool  ?"  I  asked  hotly. 

"Of  course,  I  don't,"  she  returned.  "Thank  the  Lord, 
it's  not  ourselves  but  the  other  women  are  the  fools.  But 
I  don't  blame  you.  I'd  have  run  away  in  the  same  fix." 

"How  did  they  find  out  about  Mr.  Wesson?"  I  asked. 


84  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"They  haven't  found  out,"  she  replied.  "Haven't  you 
caught  on  to  our  New  York  newspapers  yet  ?  Don't  you 
know  that  everybody  who  isn't  a  candidate  for  the  poor- 
house  is  a  millionaire  with  them  ?  The  newspapers  never 
would  let  you  elope  with  anybody  but  a  millionaire,  and 
they'd  never  let  you  ride  in  a  train.  If  you  didn't  run 
away  in  an  automobile,  you  should  have — that's  the  way 
our  newspapers  look  at  it." 

"How  did  they  get  the  photographs,  Winnie?" 

"That's  easy.  Bought  some  photographer,  of  course. 
That's  one  of  the  main  assets  of  the  photographing  busi- 
ness nowadays — selling  pictures  to  the  newspapers."  She 
folded  the  newspaper,  threw  it  in  a  corner,  and  seated 
herself  on  the  bed.  "Let  it  lie  there,"  she  said.  "I'm  sick 
and  tired  of  newspapers.  There's  nothing  to  them  but 
breaking  of  engagements,  elopements,  weddings,  divorces 
and  murders — as  if  the  world  never  did  anything  else. 
They've  got  all  about  you  in  there.  I  know  you  as  well  as 
if  I'd  lived  in  Covey  all  my  life.  I  wouldn't  marry  that 
fellow  Clark  myself.  He  took  it  all  so  matter-of-fact. 
He  was  pale  and  serious-faced  and  all  that,  and  he  said 
'maybe  it  was  for  the  best.'  I  hate  a  man  who  says, 
'maybe  it's  for  the  best.'  He's  got  no  get-up  to  him. 
You're  well  rid  of  that  Mrs.  Clark,  too.  A  terror  of  a 
mother-in-law  she  would  have  been.  Said  you'd  always 
been  rebellious,  and  that  she  had  tried  to  be  a  mother  to 
you,  and  that  her  heart  was  broken  for  her  son's  sake.  I 
must  say  though,  I  don't  dislike  that  father  of  yours.  He's 
a  man  all  right.  He's  man  enough  to  have  his  heart 
breaking  without  ever  showing  it.  I  know  that  from  him 
saying  you  were  free  to  go  and  that  he  wouldn't  follow 
you,  and  that  if  you  wanted  to  return  his  home  always 
would  be  open  to  you." 

"How  could  father  do  that?"  I  asked,  feeling  a  little 


IN  THE  CURRENT  85 

disappointment.  "How  could  he  let  me  go  without  trying 
to  find  me  and  bring  me  back?" 

"Your  father's  the  only  one  down  there  that's  got  a 
grain  of  common  sense,"  she  said.  "He  knows  as  well 
as  I  know,  and  as  you'll  know  some  day,  that  the  more 
he'd  follow  you  the  more  he'd  drive  you  away.  Do  you 
think  if  he  came  in  here  this  minute  and  told  you  to  come 
home  with  him  that  you'd  go  ?  Horses  wouldn't  pull  you, 
and  the  future's  up  to  you,  Frizzie." 

"It  is,  Winnie,"  I  said,  "and  I'm  glad." 

"I  don't  know  that  you've  got  any  call  to  be  glad  about 
it,"  she  said.  "You've  got  yourself  into  a  pretty  pickle. 
I  guess  there's  nothing  ahead  for  you  now  but  to  go  in  the 
chorus." 

"In  a  play — in  a  real,  real  theatre,  Winnie?"  I  asked. 

"I  thought  you'd  be  excited  when  I  said  theatre,"  she 
responded.  "That's  one  of  the  things  I  came  here  to  warn 
you  about.  When  Wesson  begins  to  talk  theatre  to  you 
whistle  and  look  out  of  the  window.  They  all  do  that. 
When  one  of  them  has  a  girl  on  his  hands  he  tries  to  run 
her  into  the  chorus.  It's  the  only  way  they  know  of  get- 
ting rid  of  some  of  the  responsibility." 

"You  puzzle  me,"  I  said.  "Whom  do  you  mean  by 
'they'?" 

"I  mean  Wesson  and  all  his  crew — all  who  are  as  black 
in  the  soul  as  he  is.  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you  again  to 
steer  clear  of  him.  It's  up  to  you,  not  up  to  me.  You've 
got  me  into  enough  trouble  already.  I've  lost  my  job  be- 
cause of  you." 

"Winnie,  how  could  that  be?"  I  asked  in  dismay. 

"Easy  enough.  I  was  crazy  enough  to  leave  that  card 
you  gave  me  on  the  desk,  and  he  found  it  and  asked  me 
flat  if  you  had  been  there  and  I  didn't  back  water  or  beat 
around  the  bush.  I  told  him  right  out  straight.  I  said 


86  IN  THE  CURRENT 

you'd  been  there  and  that  I'd  taken  you  away,  and  that 
I  wouldn't  let  him  crucify  you  if  I  knew  anything 
about  it." 

"You  told  him  all  that?" 

"Yes,  and  I  told  him  a  lot  more  besides.  I  told  him,  for 
another  thing,  that  you  were  up  here,  and  that  if  he  car- 
ried on  as  he's  done  more  than  a  few  times  I'd  make  it 
hot  for  him.  He  rose  up  on  his  ear,  and  fired  me  and 
here  I  am." 

"I  am  very,  very  sorry  you  were  discharged,  Winnie," 
I  said. 

"Don't  trouble  yourself  about  that.  I'm  not  sorry  my- 
self. I  never  liked  it  down  there.  The  only  one  who  was 
any  good  was  the  old  man — old  man  Wesson,  I  mean. 
He's  the  one  can  do  the  business.  When  he  rushes  in. 
takes  off  his  coat,  rolls  up  his  sleeves,  strips  off  his  tie, 
and  lets  his  collar  hang  loose  by  the  button  in  the  back, 
you  ought  to  see  things  hum.  Old  Wesson's  the  money- 
maker ;  young  Wesson's  the  money-spender.  If  it  wasn't 
for  his  father  Roy  Wesson  would  be  an  encumbrance  to 
himself  and  everybody  else.  He's  only  one  of  those  fel- 
lows who  give  millionaires  a  name  for  being  sporty  and 
regular  dare-devils  and  all  that  and  the  rest,  and  still 
more.  If  his  father  would  only  come  up  with  the  cash, 
he'd  have  a  racing  stable  and  half-a-dozen  steam  yachts 
and  other  such  trifles.  He'll  have  them  some  day — when 
the  old  man  dies  and  leaves  his  life  behind  him  in  the 
shape  of  twenty  millions  or  so." 

"I  will  never  see  Mr.  Wesson,  Winnie,"  I  avowed, 
thinking  at  the  moment  I  meant  it. 

"You  won't?"  she  responded.  "Well,  that's  the  only 
sane  thing  I've  heard  from  you.  Shake  him.  Drop  him 
like  a  rattlesnake.  You  can't  trust  him,  married  or  single. 
If  you  were  married  he'd  break  your  heart  drinking." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  87 

was  shocked  at  her  words,  and  I  resented  them. 
Whatever  Mr.  Wesson  might  be  I  was  sure  he  was  not  so 
depraved  as  to  drink.  "Mr.  Wesson  never,  never  would 
betray  me  by  drinking,  Winnie,"  I  protested. 

"He  wouldn't,  eh?"  she  replied.  "I've  not  been  down 
there  for  a  couple  of  years  with  my  eyes  shut.  The  old 
man  can  take  it  in  bucketfuls — he's  one  of  the  bomb- 
proof kind ;  but  the  son — well,  temptation's  been  coming 
his  way  since  he  was  knee  high,  and  he's  no  angel.  He 
hasn't  got  twenty  years  of  dry  life  on  a  farm  behind  him 
like  his  father,  and  I've  watched  him  down  there  in  the 
office,  and  the  road  he's  beginning  to  travel  is  a  slippery 
one,  with  a  jumping-off  place  at  the  end." 

"I  refuse  to  believe  all  you  say  of  Mr.  Wesson  is  true, 
Winnie,"  I  said,  "but  I  promise  you  I  will  not  see  him." 

"We'll  see  what  your  promise  amounts  to,"  she  replied, 
and  just  then  the  telephone  rang.  "That's  Wesson,"  said 
Winnie,  as  she  leaned  forward  expectantly,  "and  I  dare 
you  say  no  to  him."  I  went  to  the  instrument  shaking 
in  trepidation.  I  took  down  the  receiver  and  heard  his 
voice.  I  listened,  and  turned  to  Winnie. 

"It  is  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  said,  "He  wishes  to  come  here 
to  the  hotel  to  see  me,  and  what  shall  I  do?" 

"Do?"  she  repeated  with  bitter  sarcasm.  "Tell  him 
you'll  see  him,  of  course." 

I  told  him  that,  hung  up  the  receiver,  and  turned  again 
to  Winnie  with  my  cheeks  burning.  "I  couldn't  help  it, 
Winnie,"  I  said.  "I  will  see  him  once,  and  never  again." 

"I'll  make  myself  scarce,"  she  said,  in  a  hostile  voice. 
"Yes,  you'll  see  him  once !  You've  only  got  to  promise  it 
and  you'll  do  it.  Good-by." 

"You're  not  going,  Winnie?"  I  protested  in  much 
alarm. 

"Certainly,  I'm  going,"  she  replied.    "You  don't  think 


88  IN  THE  CURRENT 

for  a  minute  I'd  stay  around  here  and  come  between  you 

and  Wesson." 

"Please  don't  go?"  I  pleaded,  but  she  went  straight  to 

the  door  and  there  glanced  back  only  for  a  moment. 
"Go  ahead,"  she  said.    "Paddle  your  own  canoe." 
I  ran  toward  her  with  my  arms  held  out  entreatingly, 

but  she  pulled  the  door  closed  after  her  as  she  went  into 

the  hall.    "Winnie !  Winnie !"   I  called.    But  she  did  not 

answer,  and  I  did  not  have  the  heart  to  open  the  door  and 

follow  her. 


CHAPTER   XIV 

MR.  WESSON  had  asked  me  to  meet  him  in  ten  minutes. 
I  took  the  newspaper  out  of  the  corner  where  Winnie  had 
flung  it,  and  dropped  it  behind  the  pillow.  I  pinned  on 
my  hat,  and  went  down  to  find  him  pacing  nervously  back 
and  forth  between  the  hotel  office  and  the  street.  He 
guided  me  straight  to  a  two-seated  automobile,  assisted 
me  into  it,  took  a  seat  beside  me  and  drove  off.  We  had 
swung  into  Fifth  Avenue  before  our  words  grew  beyond 
bare  exclamations  of  delight  at  meeting. 

"I  was  anxious  to  get  away  from  that  horrid  hotel," 
laughed  Mr.  Wesson  at  length,  as  he  slackened  speed  and 
leaned  back  to  let  the  car  roll  easily  along.  "We'll  go 
north  to  the  park  for  a  bite  of  dinner.  I  knew  you  had 
the  pluck  to  do  it.  There's  an  awful  fuss  over  it  all, 
though." 

"Do  you  think  the  papers  will  find  me,  Mr.  Wesson  ?" 
I  asked. 

"There's  not  one  chance  in  a  hundred/'  he  replied. 
"The  risk  isn't  worth  thinking  about.  I've  arranged  to 
keep  tab  on  them  down  in  Covey.  I've  a  detective  down 
there,  and  if  they  plan  to  follow  you  we'll  head  them  off." 

"You  have  a  policeman  watching  father?"  I  asked. 

"No,  no,"  he  laughed  more  heartily.  "Only  one  of 
those  private  detectives,  who  are  all  men  of  leisure.  I've 
had  him  down  there  two  days,  so  there'll  be  no  suspicion 
attached  to  him.  He'll  just  hang  around  the  hotel  in  the 
village,  absorb  all  he  hears,  and  some  things  he  doesn't 
hear,  and  report  every  day  to  me." 

89 


90  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"I  never  heard  of  a  business  like  that,"  I  said.  "It 
doesn't  sound  honest." 

"It's  honest  enough,  "he  replied.  "We've  got  private 
detectives  in  New  York  now  for  a  host  of  things.  We 
couldn't  get  along  without  them;  they're  necessities. 
Why,  nine  divorces  in  ten  would  fail  only  for  the  private 
detective.  They're  into  everybody's  business  for  three 
dollars  a  day,  and  whatever  graft  is  in  it." 

"What  is  graft,  Mr.  Wesson?"  I  asked. 

"Graft  is  the  unearned  perquisite  of  modern  business," 
he  answered. 

"I  never  could  comprehend  that,"  I  said,  joining  in  his 
merriment. 

"I  doubt  if  I  ever  could  comprehend  it  myself,  but  it's 
the  truth,"  he  said.  "You  needn't  fear,  Frizzie,"  he 
added,  and  looked  ahead  in  silence  for  a  few  moments.  "I 
may  call  you  that  I  hope,  and,  of  course,  you  will  call 
me  Roy?" 

"I  shall  be  greatly  pleased,"  I  said,  and  a  second  silence 
between  us  lasted  for  a  minute  or  more. 

"If  one  of  the  reporters  runs  you  down,"  he  said  at  last, 
"you've  only  got  to  change  your  hotel  and  you're  lost 
again.  Only  if  one  does  find  you  refuse  to  talk.  In  two 
days  you'll  be  forgotten.  Life  moves  swiftly  here  in  New 
York.  To-morrow  some  other  girl  will  run  away  and 
your  case  will  be  ancient  history.  It's  in  at  one  ear  and 
out  at  the  other  with  New  York.  There  is  no  yesterday 
or  to-morrow  with  the  newspapers  here — it's  all  to-day. 
Have  no  fear,  Frizzie,  that  little  newspaper  whirlwind 
will  blow  over  in  no  time.  .  .  .  But  let's  think  of  some- 
thing else.  Look  about  you.  Can  you  imagine  where 
you  are  now  ?  We're  passing  through  Millionaire's  Row 
— the  heart  of  the  renowned  and  notorious  Fifth  Avenue. 
Every  house  you  see  stands  for  one  million,  or  two  or 


IN  THE  CURRENT  91 

three  or  maybe  half  a  dozen  or  a  dozen.  It's  a  dingy 
looking  street,  isn't  it  ?  No  one  ever  would  think  to  look 
at  these  houses,  stacked  together  like  cards  on  edge,  that 
Monte  Cristo  would  be  a  piker  in  Fifth  Avenue.  You'll 
pardon  my  slang,  won't  you?  Slang  is  as  thick  in  the 
New  York  atmosphere  as  catarrh.  Why,  the  best  Monte 
Cristo  could  do  with  his  few  kopecks  would  be  to  squat 
in  a  Harlem  flat.  I'm  afraid  I  shock  you  with  my  talk  ?" 

"I  am  very  much  interested  in  it,"  I  said.  "I  am  think- 
ing of  the  millions  and  millions  on  both  sides." 

"There  are  oceans  of  dollars  here — oceans  of  gold," 
said  Roy. 

"It  is  as  if  Moses  stretched  out  his  hand  over  the  sea," 
I  said,  "and  we  rode  between  walls  of  gold." 

"That's  it  exactly,"  replied  Roy,  "only  I  fear  if  the 
walls  came  down  the  Israelites  would  be  swallowed  up 
with  the  Egyptians.  .  .  .  But  here  we  are  at  the  park 
entrance,  and  we  will  leave  Mammon  behind.  We're  alto- 
gether too  profound.  For  my  part,  I  can't  be  intellectual 
when  approaching  a  restaurant  famous  for  its  good 
cooking." 

We  sped  along  a  smooth  road,  that  swept  around  care- 
fully cut  curves,  with  trees  giving  something  of  the  aspect 
of  an  impressive  driveway.  Beyond  the  trees  was  grass 
that  struggled  to  be  green.  There  was  an  artificial  ap- 
pearance everywhere  that  did  not  please  me.  It  struck 
me  this  park  showed  the  city  making  a  poor  attempt  to 
improve  upon  the  country.  We  came  to  the  restaurant, 
an  ugly,  misshapen  low  building,  lifted  by  a  low  hill  out 
of  the  shade  of  the  trees,  and  with  shrubbery  growing 
close  to  it  on  three  sides.  An  obsequious  individual 
showed  us  to  a  table  at  an  open  window  where  there  was 
a  view  across  the  tree-tops  of  the  roofs  of  houses  in  Fifth 
Avenue. 


92  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Now  we'll  start  with  a  little  cocktail  for  an  appetizer," 
said  Roy.  "Let's  try  a  Manhattan.  It's  not  a  bit  strong, 
and  it  will  put  us  in  just  the  proper  humor  for  dinner." 

"No,  thank  you,  Roy,"  I  said.  "I  have  never  tasted 
liquor  and  I  never  will."  I  was  very  serious,  for  I  was 
thinking  of  what  Winnie  had  told  me. 

"Oh,  humbug,"  he  said  good-naturedly.  "When  you're 
in  the  city  you've  got  to  get  over  the  pious  notions  of  the 
country.  There's  nothing  wrong  in  a  cocktail.  I  think  a 
total  abstainer  is  just  as  intemperate  as  one  who  keeps  on 
with  his  nips  and  doesn't  know  when  to  stop.  Any- 
how, we  know  when  to  stop,  and  I  only  suggested  it  be- 
cause I  thought  you'd  like  to  do  what  New  York  does." 

"No,  Roy,"  I  said  firmly. 

"Very  well  then,"  he  responded  with  a  smile.  "It's 
settled.  We'll  lift  our  spirits  on  aqua  pura.  It  will  pos- 
sess the  zest  of  novelty  for  me."  He  saw  my  dark  face. 
"Now  don't  look  sorrowful  over  it,  Frizzie,"  he  said. 
"There's  nothing  to  it  all.  I'm  not  a  lost  soul.  If  every- 
body who  touches  a  cocktail  was  beyond  salvation  New 
York  would  be  another  Sodom." 

There  were  chattering  groups  at  the  tables  around  us, 
and  I  had  not  been  seated  two  minutes  before  I  had  lost 
thought  of  cocktails  and  all  they  might  mean  to  me.  I 
have  a  serious  confession  to  make,  and  it  is  that  I  grew 
ashamed  of  my  clothes.  There  now,  scold  and  revile  me ! 
Of  course,  I  was  a  sinner,  still  was  I  not  human,  was  I 
not  a  woman?  You  know,  we  poor,  frail  women  simply 
cannot  help  it.  Neither  are  we  seriously  to  blame  for  it, 
because  the  real  sinner  is  the  better-dressed  woman  who 
stares  at  us  so  brazenly.  I  quickly  came  to  know  I  was 
out  of  my  element  there.  I  was  so  miserable  I  had  to 
fight  to  control  an  impulse  to  spring  from  the  table  and 
take  to  my  heels.  There  is  no  telling  what  I  should  have 


IN  THE  CURRENT  93 

done  had  I  not  overheard  two  languid-looking  creatures 
at  an  adjoining  table  picking  me  to  pieces.  That  angered 
me  so  much  that  I  silenced  them  with  a  stare.  Had  they 
uttered  another  word  really  I  think  I  should  have  flown 
at  them.  Roy  must  have  understood  how  I  felt,  for  he 
said  in  kindly  voice: 

"You  won't  find  a  particularly  select  crowd  here  this 
late  in  the  afternoon.  It's  more  on  the  easy-going  order, 
and  I  don't  mind  telling  you  I  don't  care  for  it  much. 
But  we  won't  bother,  Frizzie.  I  suppose  Winnie  Caine 
has  been  poisoning  your  mind  against  me?" 

"She  told  me  to  be  careful  whom  I  trusted  in  New 
York,"  I  admitted  frankly,  and  his  face  flushed  in  bit- 
terness. 

"I  thought  that  of  her,"  he  replied.  "That's  always  the 
thanks  one  gets  for  helping  somebody  else.  I  got  father 
to  take  her  down  there  in  the  office  to  meet  callers,  when 
there  really  wasn't  any  need  for  her." 

"You  knew  her  before  she  came  to  work  for  you?"  I 
asked,  unable  to  restrain  my  surprise. 

"Not  at  all,"  he  answered  directly.  "I  mean  she  came 
in  and  gave  me  such  a  hard-luck  story  that  I  induced 
father  to  engage  her." 

"Oh,  that's  it,"  I  said  relieved.  "She  should  have  been 
grateful." 

"Instead  of  that  she  was  prying  into  everybody's  busi- 
ness. I  should  have  let  her  go  long  before  she  tried  to 
keep  us  apart.  Had  I  not  found  that  card  by  accident  the 
chances  are  she  never  would  have  opened  her  mouth  about 
you  having  been  there." 

"I  should  have  telephoned  to  you,  or  come  to  you," 
I  said. 

"I  knew  that,"  he  replied,  "but  just  the  same  I  did  not 


94  IN  THE  CURRENT 

like  her  interference.  Can  she  influence  you  against  me 
in  the  slightest,  Frizzie?" 

"I  don't  know,"  I  replied. 

"You  must  know,"  he  persisted,  and  I  weakened. 

"She  never  could  have  kept  us  apart,  Roy,"  I  said, 
"never." 

"It  does  me  good  to  hear  you  say  that,"  he  responded. 
"I  thought  you  wouldn't  let  her  master  you,  especially 
after  you  had  the  nerve  to  leave  home  the  way  you 
did." 

The  mention  of  home  stirred  emotion  in  me.  "Now 
that  I  am  in  New  York,  Roy,  what  is  there  for  me  more 
than  at  home  ?"  I  asked. 

"There's  life,"  he  answered.  "There's  variety.  Wait 
a  few  days  till  you  get  the  fever  of  the  city  in  your  blood. 
You'll  never  get  it  out  again,  and  you  won't  want  to.  I 
don't  know  just  what  it  is  gives  this  fever,  but  once  it 
gets  hold  we  can't  shake  it  off.  Maybe  it  comes  from 
contact  with  so  many  people — the  magnetism,  the  exhila- 
ration that  comes  from  the  brushing  together  of  so  many 
minds.  We  would  not  like  it  here  were  we  alone.  When 
you  were  without  anybody  to  speak  to  down  in  the  coun- 
try you  were  lonely,  were  you  not?" 

"I  was  terribly,  terribly  lonely,"  I  said.  "But,  Roy,  I 
should  like  to  see  the  ocean  now.  I  should  like  to  sit  on 
the  knoll  where  we  sat.  You  remember?" 

"I  remember,"  he  said.  "I  remember,  and  I  treasure 
the  memory.  I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,  Frizzie.  Some- 
time when  everything  is  still,  when  it  is  just  dawn,  we 
shall  go  there  in  the  automobile,  and  we  shall  sit  on  the 
knoll  and  look  at  the  Atlantic  just  as  we  did  thi»t 
afternoon." 

"Yes,  yes,  Roy,"  I  said,  "we  will  do  that." 

"And  we'll  run  past  your  home  and  we'll  swing  around 


IN  THE  CURRENT  95 

by  The  Beeches — and  Covey  won't  be  so  far  away 
after  all." 

"It  would  be  glorious,"  I  said.  "I  should  have  it  all 
with  me  still,  and  I  should  also  have  my  freedom.  Oh, 
it's  glorious,  it's  glorious." 

I  saw  his  face  show  irritation.  "Hang  it,"  he  said,  "I 
thought  we'd  be  left  to  ourselves  here." 

"What's  wrong,  Roy?"  I  asked. 

"Nothing,  only  there  are  two  girls  and  a  fellow  I  know 
over  there,  and  they've  spotted  us.  They're  coming  over. 
They  don't  know  enough  to  stay  away."  He  arose  and 
outwardly,  at  least,  received  the  newcomers  with  good 
grace.  Introductions  were  made  quickly  and  with  scant 
ceremony.  My  new  friends  were  Miss  Camilla  Delmont, 
Miss  Beatrice  Collins  and  Mr.  Prince  Andrews.  But  I 
won't  stand  on  formality,  because  then  and  thereafter  they 
were  Camilla,  Betty  and  Prince. 

Camilla  was  what  I  should  call  a  tall  and  rangy  girl. 
She  bristled  with  self-confidence.  Her  hair  was  raven 
black,  and  there  was  method  in  the  way  she  brushed  it 
back  without  a  suggestion  of  a  curling-iron.  Had  she 
permitted  her  luxuriant  tresses  to  fall  far  enough  to  hide 
the  tips  of  her  ears  she  must  inevitably  have  taken  on  a 
Madonna-like  cast  of  feature,  but  there  was  nothing  of  the 
ingenue  in  Camilla  to  lead  her  to  that.  At  first  glance 
her  face  looked  like  chiseled  beauty,  but  under  inspection 
the  beauty  faded,  became  almost  negligible,  because  then 
her  face  appeared  colder  than  marble.  If  anything,  her 
features  were  too  regular.  She  looked  at  you  with  black 
eyes  that  seemed  to  have  had  all  the  fire  burned  out  of 
them.  Still  I  thought  that  selfishness  or  malice  lurked  in 
their  depths.  Her  eyelashes  were  long,  her  brow  was 
high  and  rounded.  She  was  a  supple  and  yet  strong 
figure  in  a  tight-fitting  black  silk  dress.  Her  hat  and 


96  IN  THE  CURRENT 

plumes  were  black,  and  altogether  is  was  plain  to  see 
Camilla  had  the  sense  to  know  black  was  her  natural  and 
best  color. 

I  felt  I  could  hold  myself  indifferent  to  Camilla,  yet 
once  or  twice  I  was  given  to  doubt.  Despite  all  her  mani- 
fest confidence  in  herself,  she  did  not  impress  me  as  satis- 
fied with  her  lot.  I  came  to  think  that  the  dead  perfec- 
tion of  her  face  did  not  reflect  her  real  or  better  self. 
Her  face,  in  truth,  seemed  to  me  a  mask  to  hide  her  true 
feelings.  I  took  Camilla  to  be  a  silent,  secretive  girl,  but 
not  so  Betty. 

There  was  more  than  an  ounce  of  superfluous  flesh  on 
Betty,  still  it  would  be  a  libel  to  call  her  fat.  She  was 
just  plump.  She  was  not  long  waisted  and  finely  curved 
like  Camilla,  but  short,  or  even  unduly  abbreviated.  Un- 
like the  flawless  neatness  of  Camilla,  too,  Betty  was  posi- 
tively touseled.  Nothing  seemed  to  fit  her.  Her  hair 
evidently  had  known  chemicals,  and  the  result  was  an  in- 
effective strawberry  verging  on  a  blonde.  Her  arms  were 
short,  and  indicative  of  considerable  circumference  in  ten 
years,  or  even  five.  Her  hands  were  thick  and  soft  and 
chubby,  not  firm  and  slender  like  Camilla's.  Betty's  face 
was  full,  and  frankness  itself.  There  were  only  shallows 
in  her  hazel  eyes,  yet  they  were  not  the  eyes  of  innocence. 
Betty  did  not  set  her  lips  straight  and  close  as  did  Ca- 
milla, because  Camilla  was  deliberate  and  decisive,  two 
things  Betty  could  not  be  if  she  tried.  For  Betty,  how- 
ever, it  must  be  told  her  face  contained  merriment, 
genuine  good-nature,  and  seemed  a  fount  of  laughter; 
in  contrast  to  the  parched  surface  of  Camilla's.  In 
Betty's  face  also  were  warning  signals  of  an  honestly 
hasty  temper.  Still,  whatever  Betty  might  or  might  not 
be,  she  impressed  me  as  a  far  more  likable  body  than 
Miss  Camilla. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  97 

Prince  Andrews  was  a  new  type  to  me.  He  was  scru- 
pulously groomed,  and  of  age  indefinite.  Gray  showed 
in  his  scanty  hair ;  his  cheeks  had  a  redness  that  did  not 
look  healthy,  that  was  not  of  out-of-doors,  but  seemed 
the  outcome  of  much  good  eating  and  drinking.  His 
clothes  were  cut  with  an  evident  design  of  diverting  atten- 
tion from  his  comfortable  rotundity.  His  hands  were 
soft  enough  for  a  woman's,  and  his  nails  glistened.  His 
dark  mustache  was  clipped  short.  His  heavy  eyebrows 
gave  him  somewhat  of  a  studious  appearance,  but  there 
that  part  of  it  ended.  His  eyes  looked  at  you  with  cold 
inquiry  out  of  full  sockets.  When  he  smiled  it  was  with 
an  effort,  and  as  if  to  hide  a  sneer.  I  wondered  if  he 
possibly  could  be  an  intimate  of  Roy's,  for  at  least  he 
must  have  been  twice  Roy's  age.  How  much  more  was 
a  mystery.  And  Roy  plainly  was  manly,  which  Andrews 
plainly  was  not. 

"Playing  hookey,  eh,  Roy?"  said  Andrews,  as  they 
gathered  at  the  table. 

"I  thought  you  had  the  girls  down  at  Martin's,"  replied 
Roy,  anything  but  at  his  ease. 

"Oh,  you  can  never  tell  where  we'll  bob  up,"  said  Betty, 
with  an  asperity  that  did  not  escape  me. 

"I  should  have  preferred  Martin's  to  this  place,"  re- 
marked Camilla,  with  an  air  partaking  of  superior  lofti- 
ness. "But  they  would  insist  on  dragging  me  up  here 
into  the  wilderness,  Roy ;  and  it's  such  a  bore  to  have  to 
travel  all  the  way  back  to  the  theatre." 

"Well,  I  don't  know,"  objected  Betty.  "I'm  for  a  ride 
in  an  auty-me-bubble  any  old  time."  There  was  a  laugh, 
in  which  I  joined,  at  the  jauntiness  of  her  tone.  She 
seemed  to  resent  my  part  in  it,  for  looking  coldly  at  me, 
she  added:  "Of  course,  everybody  around  here  under- 
stands I  know  enough  to  say  automobile?" 


98  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Certainly  we  all  do,  Bet,"  said  Roy. 

"Well,  I'm  not  so  sure  that  you  do,  Mr.  Sly,"  was  her 
sharp  retort. 

"My  suggestion  is  that  we  all  have  a  little  drink,"  put 
in  Andrews,  as  if  anxious  to  change  the  subject. 

"That's  good  enough  for  me/'  smiled  Camilla. 

"Me,  too,"  hastened  Roy  nervously. 

"I'm  not  drinking,  thank  you,"  said  Betty,  with  an  em- 
phasis that  froze  geniality.  She  looked  straight  across 
the  small  table  at  Roy.  "How  is  it,  Roy,"  she  asked, 
"you  didn't  look  over  when  we  came  in?" 

"Honestly,  Bet,  I  never  saw  you,"  defended  Roy.  "I'll 
leave  it  to  Frizzie  if  I  did." 

"Leave  it  to  her,  is  it?"  said  the  girl,  rolling  the  words 
in  contempt.  "That'd  be  nice,  wouldn't  it!" 

"Come  now,  come  now,  you  two  are  always  scrapping," 
interposed  Andrews.  "Why  don't  you  get  together  and 
have  it  out  good  and  hard  for  once  and  then  kiss  and 
make  up  better  friends  than  before?" 

"It's  only  lately  Roy's  been  this  way,  and  I  never  scrap 
if  nobody  doesn't  want  to  scrap  with  me,  and  I'm  treated 
half-way  decent,"  retorted  Betty.  "But  I'm  not  the  kind 
of  girl  that  goes  off  in  a  corner  and  cries  her  eyes  out 
when  a  man  gets  good  and  ready  to  throw  her  over." 

"That's  not  true,  Bet,  and  you  know  it,"  said  Roy. 

"Well,  I'm  not  saying  anything  against  anybody  in 
particular,  but  who's  to  blame  for  you  breaking  your  date 
with  me  this  afternoon  and  throwing  me  back  on  Camilla 
and  Prince?" 

"Do  you  mean  me?"  I  asked,  unable  to  restrain  my 
indignation  longer. 

"I  didn't  mention  your  name,  did  I?"  returned  the 
wrathful  girl,  "but  now  that  you've  said  it  the  name  fits." 

"You  know  you*  don't  mean  a  word  of  all  you've  said, 


IN  THE  CURRENT  99 

Betty,"  said  Camilla,  moving  herself  slowly  forward  until 
she  was  leaning  far  across  the  table,  and  looking  at  the  girl 
with  steady  gaze.  Betty  shifted  uneasily.  "You  know 
you  don't  mean  it,"  said  Camilla,  with  more  emphasis 
than  before,  and  Betty  brought  her  hand  down  on  the 
edge  of  the  table  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"What  are  you  talking  about,  Camilla?"  she  asked. 
"Who  said  there  was  anything.  .  .  .  Make  mine  a 
Martini." 

I  rode  back  to  the  hotel  wrapt  in  silence,  hardly  realiz- 
ing Roy's  feeble  attempts  to  promote  conversation.  I  left 
him  abruptly  at  the  door.  I  almost  ran  to  the  elevator. 
I  raced  from  the  elevator  to  my  room  at  the  end  of  the 
hall.  I  felt  I  needed  a  haven,  and  I  thought  my  room 
offered  it. 


CHAPTER  XV 

Now,  WITH  the  door  locked  and  the  blinds  drawn, 
passing  the  world  in  review!  What  a  world  it  was! 
What  a  day  it  had  been!  Could  it  be  possible  that 
twenty-four  hours  ago  I  was  in  my  home  with  all  in 
readiness  for  me  to  go  forth  to  meet  my  bridegroom? 
Could  it  be  possible  I  had  known  Winnie  Caine  less  than 
twelve  hours?  And  Roy  and  Andrews  and  Camilla  and 
Betty?  All  possible,  all  true;  experience  was  crowding, 
and  here  I  was — alone  in  the  city. 

Alone!  Alone  in  that  hotel  with  its  hundreds  of 
women.  Who  were  they?  Where  did  they  come  from? 
Where  were  they  going?  What  were  their  ambitions, 
what  their  lives?  Answer  me  one  question.  And  out 
beyond  the  hotel,  out  and  out  and  around  and  around, 
there  were  other  hotels,  other  homes,  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds, thousands  and  thousands  of  them — and  all  strange 
and  closed  to  me.  What  if  I  were  to  wander  out  from 
my  room,  out  from  my  hotel,  and  knock  at  random 
on  a  door  ?  Would  I  recognize  a  friend  ?  Would  a  word 
of  welcome  greet  me?  Would  the  loneliness,  once  again 
straining  at  my  heart,  find  solace  in  the  heart  of  another  ? 
Oh,  cold,  suspicious,  repelling  city! 

But  what's  this?  Was  I  giving  myself  to  brooding, 
was  I  taking  a  step  toward  regret,  perhaps  toward  de- 
spair? None  of  that.  I  shook  myself,  seated  on  the 
comfortless  little  chair,  and  vowed  I  would  set  my  face 
to  the  light.  I  told  myself  the  world  is  what  we  make  it ; 

100 


IN  THE  CURRENT  101 

I  resolved  I  would  make  the  world  right  with  me.  I 
thought  of  my  home  in  Covey — my  real  home  after  all. 
What  had  happened  there?  What  was  father  doing  at 
that  moment?  What  was  Norman  doing?  Norman!  I 
thought  of  him  as  a  blundering  fellow.  Why  had  he  not 
asserted  himself,  and  won  me  against  my  will  ?  He  could 
have  done  it,  he  could,  he  could !  And  then  I  should  have 
flung  away  every  misgiving,  and  loved  him  for  a  big, 
strong,  masterful  man.  I  meant  that,  meant  it  all,  and 
meant  more. 

Now,  why  should  I  have  thought  such  things?  Still, 
why  not  ?  Sitting  there  with  my  hands  clenched,  I  knew 
why  I  had  run  from  Norman.  He  wished  me  without  a 
struggle.  He  did  not  storm  my  heart.  He  did  not  fight. 
I  had  too  much  imagination  for  him.  He  was  a  hum- 
drum sweetheart.  He  was  a  tedious  wooer,  and,  of 
course,  I  was  forced  into  rebellion. 

I  took  the  newspaper  from  behind  the  pillow  and 
spread  it  out  on  the  coverlet.  I  read  down  the  two 
columns  of  my  flight  without  feeling  any  emotion.  I  was 
in  a  spirit  of  indifference.  Covey  was  remote.  Father 
and  Norman  and  Mrs.  Clark  were  in  the  background  in 
my  thoughts.  The  great  question  was  the  present.  I 
crumpled  the  paper  in  my  hands  and  dropped  it  to  the 
floor.  What  of  to-morrow  ?  How  was  I  to  eat,  sleep  and 
clothe  myself?  Prosaic  questions,  yet  they  had  to  be  an- 
swered. I  could  not  stop  indefinitely  in  the  hotel.  I 
could  not  wear  my  country  clothes  for  long.  Already  I 
had  felt  what  it  was  to  be  at  odds  with  Fashion. 

Winnie  came  first  in  my  thoughts.  My  heart  glowed 
in  a  sense  of  real  friendship,  of  real  affection  for  her.  I 


102  IN  THE  CURRENT 

liked  her  infinitely  better  than  Camilla  or  Betty.  There 
was  something  in  Winnie  that  drew  me  close  to  her.  I 
thought  it  would  take  little  to  make  me  love  her — but  she 
had  gone  from  me !  The  thought  struck  me  like  a  blow. 
She  had  left  me  in  anger,  and  her  anger  was  just.  I  had 
promised  her  I  would  not  see  Roy,  and  I  had  broken  my 
promise.  I  was  filled  with  uneasiness.  I  wanted  Winnie's 
advice.  I  wanted  her  assistance.  She  had  told  me  to 
"paddle  my  own  canoe/'  and  she  had  gone  from  Wesson's 
office.  I  could  not  find  her.  Unless  she  came  back,  I 
must  go  out  in  the  world  again  in  search  of  a  friend. 

I  remembered  all  she  had  told  me  about  Roy,  and  for 
one  moment  that  night  I  heartily  hated  him.  He  had  sent 
Winnie  away — he  had,  he  had  done  that.  He  had  asked 
me  to  drink,  and  Winnie  had  warned  me!  She  had 
warned  me,  too,  I  was  not  alone  in  Roy's  thoughts,  and 
there  were  Camilla  and  Betty!  Betty  had  talked  of 
being  "thrown  over"  ?  Did  she  mean  that  for  Roy's  ears  ? 
Still,  what  if  she  did?  I  had  "thrown  over"  Norman. 
Roy  might  have  "thrown  over"  Betty  for  a  similar 
reason. 

I  tried  to  arrange  all  the  events  of  the  day  in  order, 
but  that  was  impossible.  I  tried  to  look  at  Roy  as  Winnie 
looked  at  him,  but  that  too  was  impossible.  I  could  not 
believe  ill  of  him.  He  might  be  weak  in  some  things,  but 
I  had  a  woman's  fondness  for  weakness  in  men.  A 
thousand  Winnies  might  have  raised  their  voices  against 
Roy,  and  it  would  have  been  in  vain.  I  clasped  my  hands 
over  my  heart,  and  I  breathed  his  name.  I  clapped  my 
hands  and  I  shouted  his  name.  Roy,  Roy! — that  was 
enough  for  me. 

Away  then  with  dismal  thoughts  and  in  content  and 
confidence  await  the  morrow !  My  first  day  had  gone — 
flown  away  on  speeding  wings!  There  was  to-morrow 


IN  THE  CURRENT  103 

and  to-morrow  and  to-morrow — and  I  was  free,  free, 
free !  And  I  turned  out  the  light,  and  I  pulled  back  the 
coverlet,  and  I  stretched  myself  out — and  no  misty, 
startled  faces  appeared  in  the  darkness  over  my  bed ! 


CHAPTER   XVI 

IN  the  morning  Camilla  came.  In  response  to  a  tele- 
phone call  I  went  down  to  the  hotel  parlor  to  meet  her. 
She  glided  toward  me  with  perfect  assurance,  a  majestic 
looking  creature  in  her  loftily  poised  head,  her  delib- 
erately regulated  carriage,  and  in  the  defiance  bid  to  a 
homely  world  on  the  strength  of  her  impassive,  frigid 
beauty. 

"Don't  be  alarmed,  dear  Frizzie,"  she  said,  as  she  ex- 
tended an  immaculately  gloved  hand.  "Roy  has  told  me 
all  about  you.  Now,  don't  blame  him.  It  was  all  in  the 
papers,  you  know,  and  with  your  picture.  I've  just 
dropped  in,  as  I  told  Roy  I  would,  to  keep  you  from 
getting  lonely  and  to  help  you  in  any  way  I  can." 

"It's  very  kind  of  you,  Camilla,"  I  responded.  "Roy 
did  not  tell  me  he  had  spoken  to  you." 

"Oh,  Roy  never  thought  it  necessary/'  she  said.  "You 
see  Roy  and  Prince  and  Betty  and  I  have  been  such  good 
friends,  really  true  friends  I  should  say.  So  there  was 
nothing  in  Roy's  telling  me  about  you,  and,  of  course,  if 
he  hadn't  I  should  have  guessed  it,  anyway." 

"And  do  Betty  and  Prince  know  ?"  I  asked. 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  tell  you,"  she  said,  "but  I  should 
imagine  they  do.  You  see,  I  never  asked  them  what  Roy 
might  have  told  them,  but  you  may  depend  in  any  event 
Prince  would  put  two  and  two  together.  Prince  is  an 
old-timer,  and  he  doesn't  say  a  great  deal,  but  what  he 
doesn't  know  isn't  worth  knowing." 

104 


IN  THE  CURRENT  105 

"I'm  afraid  word  will  come  to  father  yet,  and  he  may 
find  me/'  I  said. 

"No  danger  of  that,  dear  Frizzie,"  she  replied  en- 
couragingly. "Now  let's  sit  here  on  this  divan  and  tell 
me  what  you've  been  thinking  of  doing  with  yourself  to- 
day. I  don't  mind  saying,  I've  taken  quite  a  fancy 
to  you." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  that,  Camilla,"  I  said,  as  I  seated 
myself  beside  her.  She  moved  around  until  she  was 
facing  me  squarely. 

"Now  I  know  you're  going  to  be  offended  with  me," 
she  said,  and  more  emphatically  added,  "I  know  it,  I 
know  it,  but  there's  no  need  to.  I  may  be  sticking  my 
finger  into  a  hornet's  nest,  but  I'm  just  going  to  run  the 
risk,  because  I  know  what  it  is  to  be  a  greenhorn  like 
you  and  with  no  one  to  advise  you." 

"Why,  Camilla,  I've  not  given  you  reason  to  think  I'm 
a  hornet's  nest,  have  I  ?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  you  never  can  tell,"  she  replied.  "Now  here," 
she  went  on  with  more  animation.  "You  intend  to  stop 
in  New  York ;  you  intend  to  put  the  country  behind  you  ? 
You  want  to  be  a  real  New  York  girl.  Isn't  that  so?" 

"Yes,  that's  just  it,  Camilla,"  I  replied. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you  why  I  came  here,  if  it's  going  to 
part  us  for  ever,"  she  said.  She  indicated  her  dress  with 
her  hands.  "How  would  you  like  a  dress  like  this  ?" 

"Why,  Camilla,  I  have  never  thought  of  anything 
like  that,"  I  said,  shocked  at  her  taking  such  liberty 
with  me. 

"If  you  haven't  you're  not  human,"  she  replied.  "We 
may  as  well  be  frank  with  each  other.  I've  had  to 
swallow  a  lot  of  pride  to  come  and  talk  to  you  like  this, 
but  I've  done  it  because  not  so  very  long  ago  I  was  from 
the  country  myself." 


io6  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"You  have  come  from  the  country,  too?"  I  asked  in 
delight. 

"I'm  glad  to  say  I  am  a  country  girl,"  she  replied. 
"I'm  from  a  spot  on  the  map  of  New  Jersey  where  a 
hundred  trains  shoot  through  every  day  and  only  two 
stop — one  in  the  morning  to  take  on  commuters  and  the 
other  in  the  evening  to  let  them  off.  When  I  first  came 
here  I  didn't  have  any  one  to  tell  me  what  to  do,  and  I've 
often  regretted  it  since.  Now,  why  don't  you  put  yourself 
in  my  hands  ?  I  know  just  how  you  feel.  I'd  bet  anything 
you  felt  uncomfortable  in  the  park  restaurant  last  night. 
What  girl  wouldn't?  I  tell  you,  Frizzie,  if  you  hope  to 
go  around  with  Roy  you've  got  to  do  better  than  your 
country  dressmaker.  He's  a  millionaire  you  know,  and 
men  are  awfully  finicky  about  these  things.  My  dear, 
they're  twice  as  bad  as  women  about  them." 

"I  have  $200,"  I  said.  "Would  that  be  enough, 
Camilla?" 

She  laughed  scornfully.  "Two  hundred  dollars! 
That'll  give  you  a  start  all  right,  but  in  a  year  or  two 
it'll  about  keep  you  in  gloves.  But  I'd  be  a  poor  friend 
to  you,  Frizzie,  if  I  stood  by  and  saw  you  spend  your  last 
cent.  I  have  a  better  plan  than  that.  We'll  put  a  few 
of  the  two  hundred  in  a  ready-made  walking  suit  and  a 
hat  and  a  couple  of  other  things,  and  then  I'll  take  you 
uptown  to  Mme.  Sylvie,  my  dressmaker,  and  she'll  fit  you 
out  properly." 

"Mme.  Sylvie  is  a  Frenchwoman?"  I  asked. 

"She's  French  like  the  most  of  the  modistes  in  New 
York,"  replied  Camilla.  "Her  family  name  is  O'Brien." 
We  both  laughed,  but  she  quickly  returned  to  the  point 
at  issue. 

"Now,  what  do  you  say,  Frizzie?  You  may  trust  me. 
I  know  Mme.  Sylvie  very  intimately,  and  her  terms  are 


IN  THE   CURRENT  107 

very  reasonable.  A  whole  three  months  you  will  have  to 
pay,  and  at  the  end  of  that  time  you  can  settle  up  the  first 
bill  and  open  up  a  second.  Of  course,  if  you  just  walked 
in  there  a  stranger  with  no  one  to  introduce  you,  she'd 
demand  a  big  deposit  and  the  balance  on  delivery;  and 
just  stick  you  horribly.  I  have  a  taxi  waiting  outside,  and 
if  you  run  up  and  pin  on  your  hat  we'll  drive  around  to 
Dacy's  and  get  the  suit,  then  have  a  bite  of  lunch  in  the 
store,  and  then  up  to  Mme.  Sylvie's ;  and  after  that  a  ride 
in  the  park.  How's  that  for  a  program?" 

"It  is  truly  splendid,"  I  said ;  and  in  a  few  minutes  we 
were  in  the  taxicab,  headed  west  for  Broadway. 

Dacy's  got  seventy-five  of  my  dollars,  part  of  it  for  a 
hat  and  other  things,  but  as  I  left  the  store  I  thought 
the  transformation  that  had  been  wrought  in  me  was 
worth  the  price.  Camilla  advised  me  in  everything;  she 
hardly  permitted  me  to  express  an  opinion.  She  was 
right;  she  knew  more  than  I,  and  I  had  only  to  survey 
myself  in  one  of  the  tall  mirrors  to  realize  she  had  indeed 
proved  a  friend  to  me.  I  walked  out  of  the  store  with  my 
head  held  up  with  more  confidence  than  I  ever  had  felt 
before.  Suddenly  I  thought  it  was  the  duty  of  the  world 
to  look  at  me,  and  I  was  more  than  willing  to  put  myself 
on  show.  All  is  vanity,  said  the  preacher,  but  little  the 
preacher  knows  of  vanity  in  his  black  coat ! 

Mme.  Sylvie  received  me  as  if  I  were  a  daughter.  "I 
was  just  going  out  to  lunch  when  I  got  your  telephone 
from  the  store,  Miss  Delmont,"  she  said  to  my  com- 
panion. "And  this  is  your  friend,  Miss — Miss  Peabody. 
Well,  Miss  Peabody,  I'll  be  very  glad  to  do  anything  for 
you  I  possibly  can.  I  like  to  help  the  girls  out,  especially 
when  they're  good  looking  like  you  are.  Don't  take  that 
for  flattery  now — I  never  flatter  nobody.  I'm  a  business 


io8  IN  THE  CURRENT 

woman,  and  it's  all  business  with  me.    I  just  can't  help 
that,  now  can  I,  Miss  Delmont." 

"I  don't  think  you  can,  Sylvie,"  said  Camilla. 

"Well  now,  let's  see  what  we  can  do  in  the  way  of  dress- 
ing you  up,  Miss  Peabody.  There  won't  be  much  trouble 
in  doing  it.  You'd  look  stunning  in  any  old  thing.  My, 
what  a  picture  you  would  make  in  the  Greek.  If  I  could 
be  made  over  again  I'd  be  just  like  you,  that's  all  I'd  ask. 
There  are  few  girls  that  come  to  me  that  are  the  likes  of 
you  and  Miss  Delmont,  if  I  do  say  it  before  you.  How's 
the  show  doing,  Miss  Delmont?  They  haven't  begun  to 
hand  out  'paper'  yet,  have  they?" 

"I  don't  think  so,  Sylvie,"  answered  Camilla,  "but 
when  they  do  you  shall  hear  from  me." 

"That's  too  good  of  you,  Miss  Delmont.  The  girls 
generally  look  out  for  me,  and  I  just  dearly  love  to  see 
them  on  the  stage.  They're  so  different  from  what  they 
are  when  they're  walking  around.  You  wouldn't  think 
sometimes  they're  the  same  girls.  .  .  .  Don't  think  I'm 
wasting  my  time,  Miss  Peabody.  I'm  just  taking  you  in, 
and  thinking  what  would  be  the  best  I  can  do  for  you. 
Naturally,  the  very  first  thing  you  want  is  something  for 
evening,  and  a  change  with  it.  That's  my  advice  to  every 
girl  that  comes  to  me  when  she  first  lands  in  New  York. 
'Nobody  will  bother  you  during  the  day,'  I  says,  'and  at 
the  worst  you  can  stay  in  bed,  but  in  the  evening  you've 
got  to  show  yourself,  and  the  better  you  look  all  the  better 
it  will  be  for  you.'  If  I  might  suggest,  Miss  Peabody, 
I'd  turn  you  out  an  opera  coat  and  swell  decolletee.  That 
will  start  you  off  nice  and  modish,  my  dear." 

"Why,  that  was  what  Camilla  advised  me  to  get," 
I  said. 

"See  that,  Miss  Peabody,"  laughed  Mme.  Sylvie.  "Two 


IN  THE  CURRENT  109 

heads  are  better  than  one.  I'd  trust  Miss  Delmont's 
judgment  any  time  of  the  day  or  night,  and  I'm  right 
happy  to  think  she  agrees  with  me." 

"Somebody  must  have  wound  you  up,  the  way  you're 
talking,  Sylvie,"  said  Camilla. 

"Oh,  dear  no,"  responded  Mme.  Sylvie,  "I'm  always 
wound  up,  Miss  Delmont,  only  don't  you  go  and  tell  any- 
body that.  Now  if  you'll  just  step  over  this  side,  Miss 
Peabody  I'll  show  you  my  samples.  I  don't  keep  much 
of  a  stock  on  hand,  and  nothing  goes  to  waste.  I've 
accounts  in  all  the  big,  first-class  stores,  you  know,  and 
it's  lots  easier  and  cheaper  to  order  goods  up  just  as  I 
want  it." 

When  Mme.  Sylvie  was  running  a  tape  measure  over 
me  she  engaged  in  lively  conversation  with  Camilla. 
"You  know  that  Gale  girl  you  introduced  me  to,  Miss 
Delmont,  the  one  that  married  the  Wall  Street  broker? 
Well,  she  went  on  the  honeymoon  to  Europe  owing  me 
four  hundred  and  sixty-seven  dollars,  and  that's  what  I 
call  downright  mean  and  a  shame.  She  was  such  a  fright, 
too !  If  I  hadn't  taken  the  trouble  to  smooth  out  all  the 
angles  and  curves  and  make  her  look  like  something, 
she'd  never  have  married  higher  in  the  social  scale  than  a 
painter.  Doing  it  on  my  money,  too !" 

"I'm  sure  she  will  pay  you  when  she  returns,  Sylvie," 
said  Camilla. 

"I  know  she'll  pay  me,"  replied  Mme.  Sylvie.  "She 
told  one  of  the  girls  she  was  coming  back  in  the  Cam- 
pania, and  I'm  watching  the  steamship  lists.  The  day 
she  lands  I'll  catch  her  on  the  telephone  and  if  she  doesn't 
settle  up  I'll  telephone  her  dear  of  a  husband,  that's  what 
I'll  do." 

"You  wouldn't  do  that  surely,  Sylvie,"  protested 
Camilla. 


no  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Indeed,  and  I  would,"  returned  Mme.  Sylvie  with 
great  positiveness.  "It  wouldn't  be  the  first  time,  neither. 
If  the  girls  want  me  to  keep  on  helping  them  to  half- 
decent  figgers  for  next  to  nothing  they'd  better  not  get 
married.  The  way  I  look  at  it  is  this :  When  I  give  a 
girl  the  shape  to  land  a  rich  husband  I  ought  to  be  good 
and  well  paid  for  it." 

"Sylvie,  you  remember  that  tan  broadcloth  I  got  a  year 
ago?"  asked  Camilla. 

"Nothing  goes  out  of  here  that  I  forget,  Miss 
Delmont." 

"Well,  I  sold  it,  Sylvie — got  $10  and  a  green  parasol 
for  it." 

"I  know,"  said  Mme.  Sylvie.  "You  sold  it  to  Miss  De 
Vere,  whose  real  name  is  McCarthy,  and  you've  got  the 
green  parasol  and  you  haven't  got  the  $10." 

"Why,  Sylvie,  how  do  you  know?"  asked  Camilla. 

"Well,  I  guess  I  should  know  something  about  it,"  re- 
plied Mme.  Sylvie.  "If  you  want  to  look  at  the  dress  I'll 
show  it  to  you  made-over.  It  fits  her  like  the  paper  on 
the  wall,  and  she's  going  to  wear  it  in  the  sextette,  if  the 
stage  manager  only  will  let  her." 

"I'll  talk  to  the  stage  manager,  and  see  that  he  doesn't," 
said  Camilla.  "I'll  have  more  than  a  green  parasol." 

I  spoke  to  Mme.  Sylvie  about  payment  for  her  work. 
"It  will  be  time  enough  to  talk  of  that,  Miss  Peabody, 
when  we  see  how  the  things  turn  out,"  she  said.  "I'm  in 
no  hurry,  anyway.  You  simply  can't  do  that  in  the  dress- 
making business,  now  can  you,  Miss  Delmont?  And  if 
you  tried  dunning  people  you'd  be  without  a  customer  in 
a  week.  Would  you  believe  it,  I've  women — rich  women, 
too — owing  me  for  dresses  these  six  years  back.  That's 
what  makes  us  get  a  name  for  charging  high  prices — the 
women  who  settle  on  the  minute  have  to  pay  for  the 


IN  THE  CURRENT  in 

women  who  hang  on,  and  never  pay  only  when  they  can't 
help  it." 

I  was  not  satisfied,  but  she  talked  so  fast  I  could  not 
raise  the  subject  again.  I  felt  uncomfortable  when  I 
came  away.  I  passed  few  words  with  Camilla  on  the 
drive  back  to  the  hotel.  I  did  not  like  the  actions  of 
Mme.  Sylvie.  She  was  too  friendly ;  she  seemed  too  free 
with  her  credit.  Why  should  she  be  willing  to  trust  me? 
Why  should  she  be  insistent  almost  I  should  place  myself 
in  her  debt  ?  I  was  inclined  to  suspect  Camilla  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  it.  Camilla  had  telephoned  to  Mme. 
Sylvie.  I  could  not  understand  that.  I  could  not  under- 
stand anything  about  the  whole  strange  affair.  I  held 
suspicion,  and  I  determined  to  wait  developments  with  my 
eyes  open. 


CHAPTER   XVII 

I  ENTERED  the  hotel  to  meet  Prince  Andrews  on  his 
way  out.  He  had  roses  in  his  hand,  the  flowers  showing 
in  a  soft  red  through  a  covering  of  flimsy  paper.  He 
bowed  graciously,  and  held  out  the  roses. 

"I  hope  you  won't  think  I  am  intruding,  Miss  Pea- 
body,"  he  said  in  meek  politeness,  "and  please  accept  this 
little  token  of  esteem  for  so  charming  a  young  lady  as 
yourself." 

"Oh,  thank  you,  Mr.  Andrews,"  I  said,  accepting  the 
flowers,  and  feeling  more  than  a  little  flattered. 

"It  is  a  great  pleasure  to  me  indeed  to  have  you  receive 
them,"  he  said.  "I  hardly  dared  to  venture  here,  Miss 
Peabody,  but  I  almost  felt  it  my  duty  to  come.  I  know 
how  trying  are  the  first  days  for  anybody  in  a  cruel  city 
like  this,  and  I  hope  this  is  not  the  last  we  shall  see  of 
each  other." 

"Oh  no,  I  hope  not,  Mr.  Andrews,"  I  said,  "and  I 
thank  you  for  the  roses  very,  very  much.  I  shall  wear 
one  of  them  to  dinner  with  Roy." 

The  faintest  sign  of  alarm  showed  in  his  face,  but  was 
gone  in  an  instant.  "I  must  beg  you  not  to  do  that,  Miss 
Peabody,  it  would  hardly  be  what  you  might  call  fair  to 
me,  you  know.  Although  really  I  shouldn't  object — Roy 
and  I  have  been  such  good  friends.  You  may  wear  it  if 
you  wish,  only  I  must  ask  you  to  refrain  from  telling  Roy 
you  got  it  from  me.  You  will  grant  me  that  little  favor, 
if  only  for  the  reason  to  preserve  this  charming  incident 


112 


IN  THE  CURRENT  113 

of  the  flowers  between  ourselves  ?  Perhaps,  if  you  knew 
the  value  I  attach  to  flowers,  Miss  Peabody,  you  would 
realize  fully  just  what  I  mean  by  my  otherwise  rather 
odd  request.  Every  flower  tells  a  different  story  to  me." 

"I  love  all  flowers  the  same,"  I  said,  "and  of  course  I 
shall  do  as  you  wish,  Mr.  Andrews.  I  have  decided  now 
I  will  not  wear  one  of  them.  Instead  of  that  I  will  keep 
them  all  in  my  room." 

"I  only  wish  I  were  deserving  of  the  compliment  you 
pay  me,"  he  said  with  another  bow.  "And  Roy,  the 
young  rascal,  is  to  take  you  to  dinner?" 

"Why  do  you  call  Roy  a  'young  rascal,'  Mr.  Andrews  ?" 
I  asked. 

"Ah,  Miss  Peabody,  it  is  easy  to  see  you  are  not  ac- 
customed to  the  terms  of  speech  with  which  I  reveal  the 
esteem  in  which  I  hold  my  friends.  'Young  rascal'! 
Interpreted,  that  is  to  say:  Roy  is  a  splendid  young  fel- 
low, chivalrous,  brave  and  witty,  a  favorite  with  men 
and,  I  may  add,  a  favorite  with  women.  Now  with  that," 
he  added,  smilingly,  "I  shall  be  off." 

"Why  not  wait  until  Roy  comes?"  I  said.  "He  spoke 
of  an  automobile  ride  before  dinner,  and  you  might  ac- 
company us." 

"I  cannot  let  myself  think  of  the  pleasure  it  would  be," 
he  replied,  and  I  thought  there  was  evasion  in  his  tone. 
"I  must  plead  the  old  excuse  of  a  previous  engagement. 
The  fact  is,  Miss  Peabody,  Betty  and  I  are  going  to 
Martin's,  and  I  also  promised  to  take  her  for  a  little  spin. 
So,  you  see,  I  have  no  time  to  lose.  I'm  sure  the  promise 
of  friendship  implied  in  these  flowers  will  keep  all,  even 
the  fact  of  my  informal  call,  a  secret  between  us." 

I  held  out  my  hand.  "I'm  sure  it  will,  Mr.  Andrews," 
I  replied  with  much  spirit,  and  I  laughed  as  I  watched 
him  go  along  the  corridor  to  the  street.  I  thought  of  all 


n4  IN  THE  CURRENT 

he  had  said,  of  all  I  reasoned  he  had  left  unsaid;  and  I 
told  Roy.  He  arrived  before  Andrews  had  been  gone 
ten  minutes,  and  I  carried  one  of  the  roses  pinned  near 
my  throat. 

"Do  you  see  this  rose,  Roy?"  I  asked. 

"It's  very  pretty,"  he  said  flatly. 

"Mr.  Andrews  gave  it  to  me.  How  did  he  know  I 
was  stopping  here,  Roy?" 

"Andrews  gave  you  that!"  he  exclaimed.  "Camilla 
or  Betty  must  have  told  him.  I  warned  them  against  it, 
but  you  can't  trust  girls  like  that.  I  had  to  tell  Betty 
where  you  were  to  keep  her  from  putting  the  reporters 
on  your  track.  If  she  had  told  them  I  knew  you,  they 
wouldn't  want  anything  more.  That  would  be  a  choice 
morsel  of  news  for  them.  They'd  leap  at  the  conclusion 
we'd  eloped.  They'd  have  us  married.  I  had  to  bribe 
her  to  keep  her  mouth  shut — she  was  mad  in  the  park 
last  night  for  some  reason  or  other — and  now  she's  gone 
and  told  Andrews.  You  see  how  risky  it  all  is  ?" 

"I  see,  Roy,"  I  replied. 

"I  never  thought  Andrews  would  do  a  thing  like  that. 
He  did  it  because  he  thinks  he  has  us  in  his  power.  But 
he  wouldn't  dare  give  us  away.  If  he  did  it  would  be 
the  last  of  him  with  me  and  a  lot  others  besides.  But 
why  didn't  you  throw  the  roses  in  his  face,  Frizzie?" 

"Was  it  wrong  to  take  them?"  I  asked. 

"It  wasn't  exactly  wrong,  but  it  might  give  Andrews 
a  chance  to  laugh  at  me.  You  don't  wish  that,  do  you, 
Frizzie  ?" 

"Never,  Roy,"  I  answered  earnestly.  "I  will  send  the 
roses  back." 

"No,  keep  them,"  advised  Roy.  "Only  refuse  others 
he  may  offer  you." 

"You  are  disappointed  in  nie,  Roy,"  I  said.     "But  I 


IN  THE   CURRENT  115 

will  do  as  you  wish,  in  this  and  whatever  else  you  may 
tell  me." 

"You  will,  Frizzie?"  he  rejoined  quickly,  and  with  an 
emphasis  that  thrilled  me. 

"Yes,  Roy,"  I  said,  fluttering  in  excitement,  as  I  real- 
ized he  had  read  deep  meaning  into  my  words.  Well, 
perhaps  he  was  right.  My  heart  beat  fast;  my  cheeks 
grew  heated.  I  was  confused,  and  turned  partly  away 
from  him.  I  felt  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  powerless 
to  resist  I  moved  slowly  under  his  guidance  until  we  were 
face  to  face. 

"You  meant  that,  Frizzie,  every  word?"  questioned 
Roy.  "Tell  me  that  you  meant  it,  from  the  bottom  of 
your  heart?" 

I  hung  my  head,  but  quickly  raised  it.  "Yes,  Roy,  I 
meant  it,"  I  said.  "And  you,  Roy,  what  about  you?"  I 
entreated,  almost  overpowered  by  the  rush  of  tender 
feeling  for  him. 

"You  bet,  I  mean  it  more  than  you  do,  Frizzie,"  he 
replied;  and  that  was  all  that  was  spoken  between  us 
then.  But  it  was  enough  for  me.  Whatever  Winnie 
might  say  to  the  contrary,  Roy  merited  my  faith  and 
held  it. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

WE  crossed  the  Fort  Lee  ferry  into  New  Jersey,  and 
Roy  let  his  car  run  easily  northward  along  the  Palisades. 
I  admired  in  silence  the  broad  sweep  of  the  Hudson, 
keeping  us  company  on  the  right;  for  Roy  was  wrapt 
almost  gloomily  in  his  thoughts.  At  length  he  took  his 
eyes  off  the  dusty  streak  of  road  ahead,  and  turned  to  me. 

"There's  something  I  should  have  told  you  long  ago, 
Frizzie,  only  for  the  upset  you  gave  me  with  that  news 
about  Andrews." 

"Tell  me  now,  Roy,"  I  urged. 

He  slowed  down  the  car  until  it  barely  moved.  "Nor- 
man Clark  was  in  to  see  me  this  afternoon,"  he  said. 

"Norman!"  I  exclaimed.  "He  knows?  He  suspects 
you,  Roy?" 

"No,  he  doesn't.  He  suspects  nobody.  He's  got  it 
pretty  straight,  I  guess.  He's  satisfied  you  ran  away, 
Frizzie,  because  you  couldn't  bear  the  thought  of  a  love- 
less marriage." 

"That  is  the  truth,  the  whole  truth,  Roy,"  I  assured 
him. 

"Only  the  whole  truth  on  your  side,  Frizzie,"  said 
Roy,  and  bent  toward  me.  I  saw  that  every  bit  of  color 
had  gone  from  his  cheeks,  and  that  his  eyes  were  very 
grave.  "There's  one  thing  I  want  to  say  to  you  now, 
Frizzie:  Norman  Clark  loves  you;  and  Norman's  love 
is  a  good  thing  for  any  woman  to  have." 

116 


IN  THE  CURRENT  117 

I  looked  at  him  in  amazement.  "Why  do  you  speak 
like  that  when  it  is  too  late?"  I  demanded. 

"Why  do  I  ?"  took  up  Roy,  almost  regretfully.  "Well, 
between  you  and  me,  Frizzie,  I  can't  take  any  pride  just 
at  present  in  what  I  did  to  Norman;  I  can't  say  to  my- 
self I  treated  him  exactly  on  the  square.  He  made  me 
think  of  that  side  of  it  to-day;  and,  whatever  else  Nor- 
man Clark  may  be,  he's  true  as  steel." 

"But  you  are,  too,  Roy,"  I  added. 

"Oh,  yes;  I  suppose  I  am;  I'm  glad  you  think  so, 
anyway,  Frizzie.  But  somehow  I've  had  it  impressed 
on  me  it  was  a  rather  shabby  trick  to  advise  an  old  class- 
mate's fiancee  to  run  away  on  her  wedding  day." 

"I  ran  away  of  my  own  free  will,  Roy,"  I  hastened, 
in  my  impulsive  way. 

Roy  brought  his  face  still  nearer,  and  I  could  not  mis- 
take his  earnestness.  "Look  here,  Frizzie,"  he  said.  "Do 
you  wish  to  go  back?  Norman's  not  half  a  bad  sort. 
He's  big  and  whole-hearted  and  brave.  He'll  make  you 
a  good  husband.  Tell  me  you  want  to  go,  and  I'll  take 
you  straight  to  the  train.  You  will  be  happy  with  Nor- 
man, I  know." 

"Happy !"  I  repeated  bitterly.  'That's  just  what  father 
and  Mrs.  Clark  kept  telling  me,  and  it  is  what  you  tell 
me !  What  about  me,  Roy  ?  Is  Norman's  love  sufficient 
for  us  both  ?  I'll  never  go  back,  Roy ;  I'll  never  go  back. 
Don't  you  understand  ?" 

Roy  reached  over  his  right  hand  and  grasped  mine 
firmly.  "That  settles  it,  little  girl,"  he  said,  all  his  gravity 
gone.  "It  would  have  struck  me  hard  to  let  you  go  back 
out  of  reach,  but  I  felt  it  was  only  honorable  to  put  the 
case  before  you  frankly." 

"I  am  very  glad  you  did,  Roy,  for  now  we  both  un- 
derstand, don't  we?" 


n8  IN  THE  CURRENT 

He  laughed  lightly.  "You  bet  we  do,  Frizzie;  you 
bet  we  do."  He  quickened  the  pace  until  the  wind 
smoothed  back  my  hair  at  my  temples.  "Feeling  good 
once  more,  I  am,"  said  Roy  breezily.  "Norman  first 
and  then  Andrews  had  me  right  on  edge.  But  don't  you 
wish  to  hear  more  about  Norman's  visit?" 

"Certainly,  Roy;  I  was  on  the  point  of  asking  you." 

Roy  leaned  back,  with  only  one  hand  on  the  steer- 
ing wheel.  "Well,  the  newspapers  said  he  was  taking 
your  desertion  philosophically  and  staying  at  home,  but 
they  were  wrong,  as  they  usually  are.  This  morning  I 
got  a  wire  from  my  private  sleuth  that  Norman  had 
bought  a  ticket  up  to  the  city  and  had  taken  the  ten 
o'clock  train  out  of  Covey.  That  didn't  impress  me 
much,  for  hunting  a  person's  trail  in  New  York  is  the 
hardest  kind  of  prospecting.  I  can't  tell  you  how  sur- 
prised I  was,  though,  when  Norman  walked  into  my 
office.  My  first  thought  was  that  he  knew  everything, 
but  luckily  I  had  enough  sense  to  keep  my  mouth  shut. 
And  in  a  minute  he  had  made  it  clear  he  knew  nothing 
at  all." 

"Oh,  that's  good,  Roy,"  I  cried,  in  great  relief. 

"I  don't  know  whether  it  is  or  not,"  went  on  Roy. 
"Poor  fellow,  he  was  deep  in  the  dumps.  And  he  came 
to  me  because  he  wanted  somebody  to  confide  in.  Think 
of  that,  Frizzie!" 

For  the  first  time,  I  felt  serious.  Also  a  wave  of  sym- 
pathy swept  over  me.  After  all,  it  was  something  for  me 
to  possess  Norman  Clark's  love.  And  I  had  repaid  him 
shamefully.  I  had  sinned  against  him  terribly,  wilfully. 
I  had  been  utterly  selfish,  giving  not  a  single  thought  to 
him ;  instead,  holding  him  up  to  ridicule,  making  him  the 
butt  of  scornful  laughter  and  vulgar  jest.  I  felt  a  lump 
grow  in  my  throat;  I  was  stricken  with  sadness  and  re- 


IN  THE  CURRENT  119 

morse.  Tears  rose  in  my  eyes;  I  looked  at  Roy  as 
through  a  mist. 

"Roy,  Roy,  what  shall  I  do?"  I  implored. 

"You're  not  going  back  on  me  now,  are  you?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  no,  Roy;  but  Norman — I  did  not  realize  before 
what  I  had  done  to  him." 

He  reassured  me  with  the  pressure  of  his  fingers  on 
my  arm.  "That's  all  right,  Frizzie.  Don't  worry.  Isn't 
it  better  to  have  it  over  and  done  with  at  once,  than  to 
be  married  and  having  to  face  a  lifetime  of  it?" 

Roy's  was  the  practical  viewpoint.  I  saw  that  instantly. 
Of  course,  I  was  only  too  anxious  to  accept  his  reason- 
ing, but  wasn't  it  true?  I  dropped  sadness,  forgot  re- 
morse. 

"Go  on,  Roy,  please  tell  me  more?"  I  requested,  quite 
myself  again. 

Roy  glanced  at  me  admiringly.  "You've  got  a  sensible 
little  head  on  your  pretty  shoulders,  Frizzie,"  he  laughed. 

"Don't  tease  me,  Roy,"  I  rebuked  him,  but  not  in  un- 
gratified  tone. 

"All  right,  I  won't,  Frizzie.  And  here  goes  for  the 
rest  of  it :  Norman  had  a  wild  notion  he  might  find  you 
in  New  York,  and  that  then  he  might  persuade  you  to 
marry  him  here.  It  wasn't  such  a  bad  idea  of  getting 
married  in  the  city;  only  Norman  did  not  realize  until 
he  was  on  the  train  the  hoplessness  of  ever  persuading 
you,  even  if  he  found  you.  He  just  came  on  up  because 
he  could  not  endure  the  inactive  torture  in  Covey.  He 
had  to  do  something,  and  he  took  the  train  when  he  was 
returning  from  an  interview  with  your  father." 

"Did  he  tell  you  anything  about  father?"  I  inquired 
anxiously. 

"Yes,  a  lot.    And  the  more  he  told  me  the  more  I  grew 


120  IN  THE  CURRENT 

in  admiration  for  that  estimable  man.  I  fancy  your  father 
is  so  strong  it  gives  him  points  of  weakness.  He  won't 
search  for  you.  He's  all  broken  up,  but  the  world  won't 
see  it.  He  fell  on  Norman's  neck — the  first  time,  Mother 
Ann  told  Norman,  he  had  given  way  since  your  mother 
died.  He  sobbed  and  even  cried." 

"I  can't  believe  that,  Roy,"  I  protested.  "I  can't  be- 
lieve father  doing  anything  like  that." 

"I  guess  it  was  as  much  of  a  surprise  to  Norman  as 
it  would  be  to  yourself,  Frizzie,"  continued  Roy,  unmind- 
ful of  my  doubting  words.  "But  his  breakdown  was  only 
for  a  minute  or  two.  He  soon  recovered  himself.  And 
he  sat  down  with  Norman  and  talked  it  over.  He  said 
that  as  you  had  gone  of  your  own  free  will,  he  would 
leave  the  future  to  your  own  free  will  also.  He  showed 
that  he  knew  you  thoroughly,  Frizzie.  I  guess  he  knew 
it  were  far  better  to  leave  the  issue  in  your  own  hands. 
He  was  convinced  that  to  follow  you,  to  find  you  and 
plead  with  you,  threaten  or  attempt  to  use  force,  would 
only  serve  to  add  to  the  difficulty.  He  advised  Norman 
to  wait — after  Norman  had  assured  him  he  never  would 
love  another.  He  said  to  wait,  and  that  one  day  you 
would  come  home ;  and  that  you  would  come  home  bear- 
ing aloft  your  shield,  and  not  carried  on  it.  Your  father's 
faith  in  you  is  wonderful,  Frizzie." 

"He  still  expects  me  to  marry  Norman,"  I  reflected, 
half  to  myself.  "He  won't  forsake  that ;  he  won't  yield." 

"He  will  yield  no  more  than  his  daughter,"  said  Roy. 

"You  favor  him?"  I  cried  almost  angrily.  "Well, 
you're  both  mistaken.  I'll  never  go  back;  and  even  if 
I  did,  Norman  would  go  on  waiting." 

"I  am  absolutely  impartial,  Frizzie,"  rejoined  Roy,  and 
thereby  did  nothing  to  allay  my  uneasiness. 

"What  else  did  Norman  tell  you?"  I  asked  abruptly. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  121 

"Oh,  as  soon  as  your  flight  was  discovered,  all  your 
relatives  and  the  others  hurried  away ;  showing  their  tact 
and  good  sense  in  that.  The  church  was  stripped  by 
your  father's  order,  and  the  flowers  sent  to  the  hospital 
in  Southampton.  Mrs.  Clark  went  off  to  bed  with  a 
splitting  headache,  and  was  still  there  when  Norman 
left.  Mr.  Clark  wandered  in  and  around  the  house; 
whenever  he  met  Norman,  patting  him  on  the  shoulder 
and  telling  him  to  bear  up  like  a  man." 

"That's  so  like  him,"  I  said. 

"Guess  Mr.  Clark  is  your  one  real  sympathizer,  Friz- 
zie.  He  told  Norman  to  try  and  think  how  hard  it 
must  have  been  on  you." 

"The  dear,  old  man !"  I  exclaimed,  and  felt  comforted. 

"That's  about  all,"  added  Roy.  "It  looks  now  as  if 
you  are  safe.  Norman  was  going  back  on  the  first  train. 
As  soon  as  he  had  shaken  my  hand  and  left  the  office, 
I  wired  to  that  private  detective  to  come  in  off  the  job. 
Norman  made  me  feel  ashamed  for  ever  having  sent 
the  detective  to  Covey." 

"You  did  it  with  a  good  purpose  in  view,  though, 
Roy?" 

"Yes,  I  suppose  I  did,"  he  replied,  half-heartedly ;  then 
suddenly  gave  attention  to  the  car,  and  swung  it  sharply 
in  between  neatly  clipped  hedges.  "Let's  forget  it,  Friz- 
zie ;  you've  done  your  part,  and  I've  done  mine.  Covey's 
behind  you  at  last,  and  let  it  stay  there."  He  laughed 
merrily.  "Yes,  and  here  we  both  are  with  a  good  dinner 
before  us.  You  can't  beat  this  roadhouse  all  the  way  up 
both  sides  of  the  river  to  Albany.  Wow,  but  I'm  hungry ! 
How  is  it  with  you,  Frizzie?" 

"As  with  you,  Roy,"  I  replied ;  but  somehow,  much  as 
Roy  desired,  I  did  not  prove  my  words. 

For  Norman  would  not  be  dismissed,  as  I  sat  with 


122  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Roy  at  the  snow-white  table;  and  neither  would  father. 
Father  in  tears  over  me?  It  was  more  than  I  could 
comprehend;  and  my  spirits  weighed  until  Roy  and  I 
were  speeding  homeward  under  the  blue  light  of  the  full 
moon. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

SEVERAL  days  went  past.  In  the  mornings  I  roamed  the 
city  finding  new  wonders  at  every  turn;  and  gradually 
beginning  to  realize  the  vastness  and  complexity  of  it  all. 
I  spent  the  afternoons  and  evenings  in  the  company  of 
Roy;  always  riding  in  his  automobile  far  out  of  the  city, 
dining  on  a  cool  veranda,  and  then  returning  slowly  to 
my  hotel. 

I  was  starting  out  alone  in  the  early  afternoon  of  the 
fourth  day,  and  had  just  turned  from  the  hotel  desk, 
when  I  saw  Betty  come  prancing  in  from  the  street. 
Betty  was  as  breezy  as  a  March  day,  and  at  times  she 
was  as  bright  as  a  day  in  June.  She  was  both  breezy 
and  bright  that  day,  although  I  thought  her  brightness 
was  a  little  forced.  She  took  me  by  the  hand  and  shook 
vigorously. 

"Hello,  Frizzie;  delighted  to  see  you,"  she  rattled  off. 
"I  was  just  romping  past,  and  thought  I'd  drop  in  to 
see  you.  Say,  you're  all  dressed  up,  aren't  you?  New 
tailor-made,  eh?  Well,  it  does  suit  you,  I  must  say.  I 
congratulate  you.  You're  as  spick  and  span  as  a  yacht. 
Oh,  but  you  are  the  sly  one.  Bet  you  never  told  Roy 
yet  that  Prince  brought  those  flowers.  I  don't  blame 
you,  wouldn't  do  it  myself ;  only  you  are  beginning  early 
to  play  them  off  against  each  other  like  that!  Say,  it's 
a  wonder  you  wouldn't  tell  a  girl  about  these  things.  If 
I  hadn't  seen  Prince  coming  out  of  here  I'd  never  have 
guessed  it  or  dreamed  it  myself  in  the  living  world.  But 

123 


i24  IN  THE  CURRENT 

I  buttonholed  him,  I  did,  and  he  had  to  come  out  with 
it.  But  don't  you  worry,  dear ;  it's  safe  with  me.  I  may 
babble  away  to  you,  but  Roy  will  never  hear  a  word 
from  me.  And  don't  you  tell  Roy  I  know — what  Roy 
doesn't  know  won't  hurt  him;  and  I'll  tell  you  I  admire 
you,  for  the  girl  who  doesn't  watch  out  for  her  p's  and 
q's  here  in  New  York  is  going  to  get  left.  Take  that 
from  me,  and  keep  at  it  just  as  you're  going  and  you'll 
wear  diamonds."  She  stepped  back  and  appeared  to 
survey  me  with  pleasure.  "My,  how  stunning  you  do 
look!"  she  exclaimed.  "If  I  had  your  shape,  Frizzie,  I 
wouldn't  take  back  talk  from  the  best  of  them.  But  say, 
now  that  I  get  a  good  look  at  it,  that  isn't  a  tailor-made. 
That's  a  ready-made,  isn't  it?  Ton  my  word  I  never 
should  have  known  it,  had  I  not  stood  off  and  looked  it 
over  carefully." 

"How  do  you  know  it  is  a  ready-made,  Betty?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  how  does  any  woman  know?  Why, 
honest,  all  half  of  the  women  in  New  York  does  is  siz- 
ing up  every  woman  that  comes  along  and  figuring  what 
department  store  she  buys  her  ready-mades  in."  She 
came  closer  again.  "Now,  tell  me  this :  Are  we  going 
to  be  friends,  or  not  ?  I'll  admit  I  was  a  bit  too  hasty  the 
other  evening,  but  I'm  all  over  it;  and  Roy  can  go  his 
way  and  I'll  go  mine.  I'll  never  be  a  rival  of  yours,  my 
dear.  I'm  not  so  foolish  as  to  think  I've  got  half  a 
chance,  because  the  new  faces  always  are  the  winners." 

"We  cannot  be  rivals,"  I  said. 

"We  could  be  rivals  if  I  was  willing  to  sit  in  the  game," 
she  replied. 

"You  may  be  interested  in  Roy,  but  I  have  no  interest 
in  him,  Betty,"  I  said;  and  I  was  surprised  at  the  ease 
with  which  the  words  came  from  me. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  125 

"Well,  I  do  hope  you  don't  ask  me  to  believe  that?" 
she  responded,  with  the  air  of  a  skeptic.  "What  are  you 
here  for,  if  it  isn't  for  Roy?" 

The  words  stung  me,  and  without  attempting  to  con- 
ceal my  anger  I  replied  hotly:  "You  must  understand, 
Betty,  I  am  here  of  my  own  free  will.  If  you  cannot 
understand,  I  won't  explain  further;  and  I  will  not  hear 
another  word  from  you." 

She  laughed  scornfully,  but  evidently  with  a  desire  to 
placate  me.  "Well,  I  must  confess  you  are  fiery,  although 
you  do  look  so  gentle  and  harmless,"  she  said.  "It's  all 
right,  Frizzie.  You're  well  able  to  look  out  for  number 
one.  I  only  wish  I  could  bristle  up  and  show  my  teeth  like 
that.  But  I  didn't  come  here  looking  for  a  fight.  I  just 
ran  in  for  a  friendly  call ;  and  now  that  I  see  you  in  that 
thing  I've  been  thinking  you  might  want  a  real  tailor- 
made." 

"Thank  you  for  your  interest,"  I  said  coldly. 

"You  needn't  get  grumpy  now,  Frizzie,"  she  asserted. 
"Instead  of  looking  as  if  you  were  going  to  snap  my 
head  off,  you  ought  to  feel  thankful  to  a  girl  for  offering 
to  set  you  right.  If  we  girls  didn't  hold  out  a  helping 
hand  to  girls  like  you  that  have  just  blown  into  town, 
how  would  you  ever  find  out  things?  If  you  had  a 
mother  or  a  brother  or  a  sister  it  wouldn't  be  my  place 
to  open  my  mouth,  but  when  you  haven't  a  soul,  why  you 
might  at  least  give  a  girl  credit  for  good  intentions." 

"I  give  you  credit  for  the  best  of  intentions,  Betty," 
I  replied ;  and  in  a  humor  to  hear  more  from  her  I  drew 
her  to  a  seat  and  requested  her  to  enlighten  me  further. 

"Well,  I'm  sure  it's  none  of  my  business,"  she  said, 
"only  I  do  hate  to  see  a  girl  like  you  taking  the  chance 
of  being  left  to  live  and  die  a  hermit.  New  York  hasn't 
any  use  for  a  girl  unless  she's  got  half-way  decent  clothes ; 


126  IN  THE  CURRENT 

and  it's  only  when  a  girl's  satisfied  with  the  clothes  she's 
got  that  she's  got  any  peace  of  mind%  Another  week  or 
two  and  you'll  be  getting  restless.  Clothes  grow  in  a 
girl's  eye.  To  me,  clothes  are  a  sight  bigger  problem 
than  man,  taking  him  as  you  like — sweetheart  or  hus- 
band, or  somebody  else's  husband.  That's  me,  Frizzie. 
You'd  think  to  hear  me  talk  I'm  practical,  but  when  it 
comes  down  to  doing  what  I  ought  to  do  I'm  a  bigger 
fool  than  you  could  be  if  you  tried.  I  try  not  to  be  ro- 
mantic and  all  that,  and  I  suppose  I'm  not;  but  I'll 
swear  I've  got  no  head  for  business.  All  I  know  is  that 
we  can't  wear  shoddy  here  in  New  York — we've  got  to 
have  it  all  wool  and  a  yard  wide  or  we're  left  to  nurse 
our  toes  out  in  the  cold.  If  you  want  to  have  me  help 
you  into  a  decent  dress  or  two  then  all  right,  if  you 
don't  want  me  to,  then  that'll  be  all  right  just  the  same. 
Here,  I'll  make  you  a  proposition:  Come  around  with 
me  to  Zimpel's  and  I'll  get  him  to  give  you  time  on  a 
tailor-made." 

"No,  thank  you,  Betty,"  I  said. 

"I  won't  take  that  for  an  answer,"  she  replied.  "Here, 
I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,  and  what's  put  it  in  my  mind : 
I'm  going  around  to  Zimpel's  to  fit  on  a  gown  myself, 
and  we'll  walk  around  there.  It's  only  a  couple  of  blocks. 
You're  just  going  out,  aren't  you?" 

I  looked  her  straight  in  the  eyes,  and  I  never  flinched. 
"You're  mistaken,  Betty,"  I  said,  "I'm  just  returning. 
I've  walked  blocks  and  blocks ;  oh,  miles  and  miles !" 

"You  don't  want  to  do  it,  I  can  see  that,"  she  retorted. 
"Just  as  you  say,  only  never  complain  I  didn't  offer  to 
do  the  right  thing  by  you.  I'll  drop  in  again  in  a  day 
or  two." 

She  tripped  out  as  breezily  as  she  had  entered.    I  saw 


IN  THE   CURRENT  127 

her  swing  to  the  right  toward  Broadway.  I  waited  five 
minutes.  Then  I  stepped  cautiously  into  the  street. 
Betty  had  disappeared,  and  I  turned  to  the  left  toward 
Fifth  Avenue. 


CHAPTER  XX 

I  HAD  promised  Roy  I  should  walk  north  in  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  he  picked  me  up  near  Forty-second  Street. 
We  continued  northward  to  Fifty-ninth  street,  where  we 
took  to  Central  Park  and  pursued  a  diagonal  course  to 
Seventh  Avenue,  up  which  we  sped  to  the  Bronx,  and  on 
through  to  the  open  country  in  Westchester  County.  It 
was  a  couple  of  hours  later  when  we  drew  up  at  a  little 
inn,  where  we  found  seats  at  a  table  on  a  veranda,  af- 
fording a  view  of  Long  Island  Sound,  lying  smooth  and 
bright  as  glass. 

Roy  was  in  a  communicative  mood,  and  before  we  left 
that  table  he  had  told  me  much  family  history  and  a 
great  deal  about  himself.  He  had  great  ambitions.  "I'm 
going  to  be  as  big  a  success  as  dad,  only  in  a  different 
way,"  he  asserted  gaily;  and  proceeded  to  relate  what  a 
conquering  man  his  father  was. 

"Dad  began  on  a  shoestring,"  said  Roy,  proudly,  "and 
now  look  what  he  is !  He's  one  of  the  half-dozen  biggest 
men  in  the  Street.  You  can't  know  what  that  means, 
Frizzie,  and  I'm  not  boasting  in  trying  to  give  you  an 
idea  of  dad's  power.  He's  president  of  six  companies 
and  director  in  seventy-three.  He's  got  a  genius  for 
making  money;  he's  a  kind  of  money-making  machine. 
He's  gone  along  without  trouble  all  his  life,  excepting 
the  time  when  Nance  married  that  Italian  count.  You 
didn't  know  there  was  a  real,  live  count  in  the  family? 
Well,  I'll  tell  you  about  it: 

128 


IN  THE  CURRENT  129 

"You  see,  dad  never  cared  much  for  those  foreigners 
— he  said  they  were  too  easy  in  a  business  deal.  He 
wanted  Nance  to  marry  an  American.  When  the  count 
first  called  he  told  him  to  begone  for  a  whipper-snapper, 
fortune-chasing  imitation  of  a  man,  but  the  count  didn't 
object.  Every  morning  for  a  month  he  walked  up  Fifth 
Avenue  with  a  bouquet,  witH  ribbons  streaming  from  it, 
in  his  hand,  and  always  on  the  stroke  of  eleven  o'clock 
he  gave  a  ten-cent  tip  to  the  man  at  the  door  and  re- 
quested him  to  present  the  flowers  to  Nance  with  his 
compliments.  Dad  let  the  count  make  a  public  exhibition 
of  himself,  because  he  thought  it  would  cure  Nance.  But 
the  count  knew  what  women  like  better  than  dad  did,  and 
when  it  came  to  the  final  tussle  dad  found  he  had  to 
fight  not  only  Nance  but  mother  as  well.  The  wine  of 
Italy  had  gone  to  Nance's  head,  and  mother  was  just 
as  tipsy.  Dad  promised  me  half  a  million  if  I  could  work 
one  of  my  college  chums  into  Nance's  good  graces.  I 
tried  seven  or  eight  of  them,  but  Nance  shied  on  them  all. 
Then  dad  said  his  own  daughter  wouldn't  sell  him  out, 
and  that  if  she  didn't  throw  over  the  count  he  would  dis- 
inherit her.  But  that  didn't  frighten  Nance  for  a  minute, 
and  mother  told  dad  she  was  ashamed  to  hear  him  talk 
like  that  of  any  child  of  his.  'Doesn't  it  mean  anything 
to  you  to  be  an  American?'  asked  dad,  and  Nance  re- 
plied :  Til  be  a  better  American  in  Italy  than  I  am  here, 
father.'  'Do  you  hear  that,  Mary?'  said  dad  to  mother, 
'She'll  be  a  better  American  when  she's  a  Dago!'  All 
mother  did  was  to  rebuke  dad  for  calling  the  count  a 
Dago,  and  to  remind  dad  that  he  had  to  let  Nance  follow 
the  dictates  of  her  own  heart. 

"Well,  they  were  married,  and  father  came  out  in  the 
papers  and  said  the  count  was  a  splendid  fellow  and  that 
he  favored  him  from  the  start.  Nance  and  her  count 


130  IN  THE  CURRENT 

went  to  Palm  Beach  on  a  honeymoon.  They  reached 
Naples  just  six  weeks  after  the  wedding,  and  the  follow- 
ing day  the  papers  printed  long  accounts  of  creditors  be- 
sieging the  doors  of  the  count's  Roman  palace.  Reporters 
came  to  dad,  and  he  told  them  he  wouldn't  give  a  fig  for 
a  man  who  couldn't  run  into  debt.  No  one  ever  could 
read  dad.  When  he  was  talking  to  the  reporters  he  had 
four  cables  from  the  count  on  his  desk  requesting  a  re- 
mittance of  a  few  tens  of  thousands.  The  last  of  the 
four  was  signed  by  the  count  and  Nance ;  and  dad  raved 
around  the  office,  taking  his  grudge  out  on  the  staff. 
Mother  asserted  herself  and  the  money  was  sent;  and 
dad's  still  sending.  Nobody  can  stand  against  dad,  ex- 
cept in  his  own  home." 

"That's  all  very  interesting,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  but  that's  not  the  best  I've  got  about  father,"  he 
replied.  "Wait  till  I  tell  you  how  we  'broke  into  society.' 
Mother  had  her  heart  set  on  cutting  a  swath  in  society, 
but  for  years  dad  stood  out  against  it.  Mother  used  to 
say,  'What  have  we  got  all  our  money  for  ?'  and  dad  used 
to  reply,  'To  make  more  money  with.'  It  looked  as  if 
mother  never  would  gain  her  ambition — you  see  with 
Nance  married  to  the  count  she  would  not  be  content 
with  anybody  but  a  swell  of  the  400  for  May,  my  younger 
sister — until  one  evening  dad  came  home  and  said  it 
would  be  all  right;  that  he  wished  the  whole  family  to 
mix  in  the  cream  of  the  social  swim,  and  that  he  was 
going  to  see  to  it  that  we  did.  Mother  was  in  transports, 
and  it  all  came  out  as  dad  promised.  Mother  goes  to 
all  the  so-called  exclusive  affairs  now,  but  she  doesn't 
know  why  the  invitations  come  piling  in  on  her.  Dad 
could  tell  her  something,  as  he's  told  me.  This  is  what 
dad  told  me,  one  night  when  we  were  alone  after  dinner : 

"  'Roy,  my  boy,  I  hope  you'll  never  get  this  society 


IN  THE  CURRENT  131 

bee  buzzing  in  your  bonnet.    You  see  what  it's  done  for 
us.     It's  brought  an  English  butler  into  the  house,  and 
a  French  chef  and  a  French  maid,  until  I'm  afraid  to 
talk  to  my  own  servants.    You  couldn't  guess  how  it  all 
came  about.    Your  mother  thinks  I  Hid  it  as  a  favor  to 
her,  but  she  doesn't  know  the  truth  of  it.    You  see,  what- 
ever you  may  say  about  these  near-men  of  the  400,  they've 
got  money.    That's  the  best  part  of  them,  and  it's  what 
makes  them  the  snobs  they  are.    I  used  to  go  down  to  the 
Waldorf    at  night,  and    those  fellows  made  it  plain  I 
wasn't  good  enough  for  them.    When  they  got  talking 
about  pedigrees  and  family  trees  I  wasn't  in  it,  although 
I've  been  told  some  of  their  boasted  ancestors  started 
skinning  skunks.    Well,  you  know,  I  have  a  fair  show 
of  money  myself,  and  I  thought  that  ought  to  have  made 
us  equals.    But  no,  sir;  there  was  more  to  it  than  that, 
so  I  said  to  myself,  "Wesson,  you'll  have  to  teach  these 
fine  boys  a  lesson."    And  I  did,  by  gad,  I  did.    I  sat  back 
quietly  until  I  got  a  few  of  them  where  I  wanted  them. 
They  may  know  all  about  ball-room  dancing,  but  they 
don't  know  all  the  fancy  steps  in  the  Wall  Street  dance; 
and  I  nipped  a  few  of  them ;  I  got  them  with  their  backs 
to  the  wall,  and  you  ought  to  have  heard  them  squeal. 
You'd  think  I'd  stuck  a  knife  in  them,  and,  by  gad,  so  I 
had,  and  turned  it  round  in  them.    They  were  all  quit- 
ters, and  they  came  to  me  crying,  "Mercy,  mercy,  Wes- 
son, for  heaven's  sake,  mercy!"     "I'll  have  mercy,"  I 
said,  and  I  started  to  play  football.    I  banged  the  desk 
with  my  fist  under  their  noses,  and  made  every  one  of 
the  lady-fingers  jump  three  feet  into  the  air.    "See  here, 
you  lot  of  muffins,"  I  said,  "I'm  not  in  this  deal  specially 
for  the  money  that's  in  it.     I've  got  money  enough  to 
take  a  wagonful  of  it  down  to  the  Battery  and  shovel  it 
into  the  bay,  but  I  could  get  along  with  some  more  of  ji 


i32  IN  THE  CURRENT 

if  you  don't  do  what  I  want  you  to  do."  "Tell  us,  tell 
us,  what  you  want  us  to  do  and  we'll  do  it,  Mr.  Wesson," 
they  all  squeaked  in  chorus,  and  I  knew  I  had  them.  "I 
guess  I've  got  you  fellows  pretty  well  pinched,"  I  said, 
"the  shoe's  hurting  some,  isn't  it?"  "Oh,  Lord,  if  you 
don't  let  up  we'll  lose  millions,"  whined  one  of  them,  and 
I  laid  the  law  down  right  that  minute.  "Now  here,  you 
small  fry,"  I  said,  "you've  been  holding  your  noses  too 
almighty  high  to  suit  me.  When  I  wander  down  to  the 
Waldorf  and  ramble  around  in  general  after  this,  I  don't 
want  the  temperature  to  fall  below  zero  every  time  you 
happen  to  be  sitting  sipping  your  champagne-punches. 
I'm  not  so  particular  about  myself  either  that  I  can't 
stand  for  it,  but  I've  got  a  kind  of  pride  in  my  family; 
and  if  things  are  not  set  right  in  that  direction  I'll  show 
you  no  more  mercy  than  I  would  a  rattlesnake."  Man, 
Roy,  you  ought  to  seen  them  running  in  out  of  the  wet. 
They  were  falling  over  each  other,  but  I  only  let  them 
come  in  gradually  and  one  at  a  time.  Whatever  further 
talking  was  done  was  all  on  my  side,  and  I  sent  them 
away  whipped  and  with  their  tails  between  their  legs.  I 
didn't  give  them  a  chance  to  turn  round  and  bite  me, 
either.  I  held  the  screws  tight  for  a  few  days  till  your 
mother  had  walked  in  through  Society's  pearly  gates  and 
all  the  papers  knew  about  it.  I  knew  that  once  inside 
it'd  take  more  than  an  earthquake  to  put  her  out  again, 
so  I  let  the  kid-gloved  Captains  of  Finance  come  to  me 
for  settlement.  They  were  smiling,  but  they  looked  as 
if  they  were  tired  of  sitting  on  the  pins  and  needles.  I 
gathered  in  a  sheaf  of  certified  checks,  giving  me  more 
than  five  cents  for  my  time  and  trouble,  and  when  all 
was  ready  for  the  Grand  Hand-shaking,  I  fired  the  bomb 
under  them.  "You're  a  nice  lot  of  shrimps,"  I  said,  flick- 
ing the  ash  off  my  cigar  in  that  indifferent  way  that  means 


IN  THE  CURRENT  133 

so  much.  "It  wasn't  that  I  cared  a  red  cent  for  my  family 
getting  inside  the  breastworks  of  your  pink  and  purple 
playground,  but  just  that  I  wanted  to  save  my  own  skin 
from  the  fangs  you  wear;  and  I've  saved  it  and  my 
family's  inside  the  breastworks  without  having  to  buy 
its  way  in.  You  ought  to  know  by  this  time  you  can't 
play  ping-pong  and  be  like  your  fathers  were  when  they 
made  the  money  for  me  to  take  away  from  you.  You 
fellows  ought  to  hire  a  gang  of  assassins  to  keep  you  from 
crossing  south  of  Forty-second  Street;  where  business  is 
carried  on  there  you  don't  belong.  Not  one  of  you  has 
ever  guessed  that  I  bit  off  more  than  I  could  chew  when 
I  stacked  up  against  your  game.  That's  what  I  did,  but 
I  out-gamed  you.  I  was  left  with  only  a  straw  in  my 
hand,  but  I  roared  and  threatened  and  told  you  it  was  a 
sledge-hammer  and  you  saw  it  that  way.  I  dragged 
in  that  Society  piffle  to  get  time  to  catch  my  second  wind, 
and  I  got  my  second  wind ;  and  now  I've  got  your  certi- 
fied checks,  and  you  can  all  skedaddle  out  of  here.  That's 
all,  and  if  ever  I  hear  of  any  backbiting  from  you  I'll  put 
on  the  brakes  again;  and  I've  got  two  dollars  where  I 
had  one  before.  Good-by."  ' 

Roy  stopped  for  a  minute  to  dwell  in  satisfaction  on 
his  father's  achievement,  and  I  remained  silent  trying 
to  reason  it  all  out.  "That's  only  one  of  father's  many 
victories,"  said  Roy  at  length,  "and  the  funny  part  of  it 
was  there  was  no  attempt  at  reprisal.  Instead  of  that 
several  came  to  father  with  money  for  investment;  and 
father  told  me  he  had  expected  that  and  always  had  it  in 
view.  He's  often  told  me  the  only  way  to  make  Wall 
Street  love  you  is  with  a  whip." 

"Your  father  is  a  great  man,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"Yes,"  replied  Roy,  "and  I  hope  to  be  still  greater,  but 
not  in  the  way  he  thinks.  I've  never  had  much  heart 


134  IN  THE  CURRENT 

for  buying  and  selling  stocks ;  it  seems  so  sordid  to  me.  If 
I  saw  only  a  stock-ticker  ahead  of  me  we  wouldn't  be  sit- 
ting here,  Frizzie,  for  I  never  should  have  known  what  you 
meant  that  day  on  the  knoll,  overlooking  the  Atlantic." 

"That's  true,  Roy,"  I  exclaimed,  glowing  in  enthusiasm. 

"Father  never  thinks  of  anything  but  business,  and  he 
wants  me  to  do  the  same,"  said  Roy.  "Only  this  morn- 
ing he  asked  me  when  was  I  going  to  get  through  having 
my  fling  and  buckle  down  to  work." 

"What  do  you  mean  by  having  your  'fling,'  Roy?"  I 
asked  in  my  guileless  way. 

"You  don't  know !"  laughed  Roy.  "Well,  it  would  be 
hard  for  me  to  explain  to  you  just  what  it  means,  but 
perhaps  I  might  say  it  is  having  fun  while  you  are  young, 
before  the  responsibilities  of  life  pile  on  your  shoulders." 

"Then  we're  having  a  'fling'  now— dining  here?"  I 
asked. 

"Oh,  I  wouldn't  say  that,"  replied  Roy.  "The  term 
doesn't  apply  so  much  to  you  as  to  me — to  young  men, 
you  know.  It's  just  going  around  in  a  harmless  way 
having  a  lively  time,  taking  a  drink  or  two,  and " 

"Roy,"  I  interrupted  impulsively,  "you've  had  cock- 
tails the  last  three  times  we've  had  dinner  together." 

He  laughed  good-naturedly  and  without  sign  of  the 
seriousness  I  felt.  "How  many  persons  have  you  seen 
without  a  glass  before  them,  Frizzie?"  he  asked. 

"Not  one,  except  myself,"  I  replied  truthfully. 

"Everybody  drinks  in  New  York,"  said  Roy.  "Some 
women  drink  as  much  as  men,  some  women  drink  more. 
We're  getting  quite  Continental  here  in  New  York." 

"I  don't  like  it,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"Neither  do  I,  but  I  don't  worry  over  it,"  he  replied. 
"Every  generation  has  its  own  brand  of  morals,  and  it 
happens  our  generation  in  New  York  approves  of  drink- 


IN  THE  CURRENT  135 

ing  so  long  as  we  do  not  drink  ourselves  under  the  table. 
Life  isn't  worth  living  for  a  Prohibitionist  in  New  York." 

"It's  a  dreadful  state  of  affairs,"  I  said. 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  replied  Roy.  "Our  restaurant  keepers 
are  very  clever.  They  provide  palms  and  cut  flowers  and 
embossed  menu  cards  and  gilded  ceilings  and  red  lights 
and  string  orchestras — and  then  they  carry  the  bar-room 
to  the  restaurant  tables  in  crystal  glasses.  Little  wonder 
women  are  drinking  and  smoking." 

'They're  not  smoking  surely,  Roy?"  I  said  in  horror. 

"Well,  they  don't  go  around  and  smoke  promiscuously," 
he  said,  "but  you  can  imagine  the  situation  when  mother, 
who's  so  proud  of  her  Puritan  descent,  has  come  to  serv- 
ing cigarettes  to  her  women  guests.  She  doesn't  smoke, 
of  course,  but  she  simply  has  to  provide  cigarettes  or 
become  the  subject  of  unfriendly  gossip.  And  that's  not 
the  only  principle  she'd  had  to  sacrifice  for  her  position 
in  society." 

"I  will  never  smoke  nor  drink,  Roy,"  I  said  earnestly. 

"I  know  you  won't,"  laughed  Roy.  "That's  one  reason 
why  I  admire  you.  We  men  don't  care  especially  for 
women  who  drink  and  smoke;  we  never  will  be  Conti- 
nentals in  that  respect.  Still  I'm  not  a  pessimist — we're 
not  headed  straight  for  perdition.  We'll  get  over  our 
weakness  for  wine  and  tobacco.  Some  day — who  knows  ? 
— we  may  elect  a  Prohibitionist  president." 

"I  hope  you  mean  that,  Roy." 

"I  mean  it,"  he  said.  "I  can  be  serious  occasionally. 
Father  often  says  that  if  I  were  poor  I  would  make  a 
temperance  lecturer  or  a  revivalist."  He  threw  back  his 
head  and  laughed  heartily,  then  suddenly  picked  up  by 
its  slender  stem  the  glass  that  stood  before  him.  "But 
come,  Frizzie,"  he  said,  in  an  altered  tone.  "Let  us  laugh 
and  be  merry — I  will  empty  my  glass !" 


136  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Don't,  Roy,"  I  said,  and  I  put  my  hand  firmly  on  his 
wrist. 

"If  it  was  anybody  else  but  you,  Frizzie,  I  would  drink 
it,"  he  said  in  a  softened  voice,  and  put  the  glass  back  on 
the  table.  "Why  not  drink  it  if  I  want  it !"  he  exclaimed 
suddenly.  "I'm  not  afraid  of  it." 

I  tried  to  restrain  him,  but  he  caught  the  glass  and 
drained  it  to  the  last  drop.  Then  he  raised  his  hand  and 
with  an  impassioned  sweep  shattered  the  glass  into  frag- 
ments on  the  floor  at  his  side.  There  were  cries  of 
astonishment  from  persons  at  adjoining  tables,  but  Roy 
had  no  ears  for  them.  He  shoved  back  his  chair  and  got 
to  his  feet. 

"I  swear  to  you,  Frizzie,"  he  said,  "that's  the  last  time 
I'll  ever  taste  liquor." 

"You  are  in  earnest,  Roy?"  I  asked,  thrilled  in  ex- 
citement. 

"I  swear  it,"  he  replied.  "If  I'm  weak  it's  father's 
fault.  He  gave  me  the  taste — from  the  bottom  of  his 
glass — but  I'll  overcome  this  weakness.  Come,  Frizzie, 
we'll  go;  we've  been  long  enough  in  this  place.  From 
this  time  on  I'll  be  as  strong  as  you  are." 

There  was  not  a  sound  as  we  walked  through  the  rows 
of  tables,  but  I  felt  all  eyes  were  upon  us. 

"I  swear,  Frizzie,  I  swear,"  said  Roy.  "Mother  often 
wanted  me  to  swear,  but  it's  taken  you  to  make  me  do  it." 

We  went  out  through  a  door,  leaving  the  lights  and 
the  music  behind;  and  joy  was  in  my  heart.  From  the 
diners  came  an  outburst  of  ironical  laughter,  but  my  faith 
was  proof  against  that. 


CHAPTER   XXI 

IT  was  two  days  later  when  Camilla  called  again,  and 
I  took  her  up  to  my  room.  She  seated  herself  carefully 
on  the  edge  of  the  miniature  chair,  held  herself  erect,  and 
looked  around. 

"What  a  quaint  little  room  this  is,  Frizzie,"  she  said, 
with  a  placid  smile.  "I  never  could  get  to  like  the  life 
in  hotels,  though — they're  so  matter-of-fact,  cold  and  icy. 
If  I  were  you,  I  should  be  on  the  lookout  for  a  snug, 
little  flat  of  my  own." 

"I'm  afraid,  Camilla,"  I  responded,  "I  shall  have  to  be 
satisfied  with  this  room  until  I  find  some  employment." 

"You're  not  thinking  of  working,  are  you  ?"  she  asked, 
as  if  shocked.  "Only  scrubwomen  and  cash  girls  and 
telephone  girls  and  stenographers,  and  such  as  those, 
work!  Who  ever  put  that  in  your  head,  Frizzie?  I'd 
never  think  of  working !" 

"I'm  sure  I  must  think  of  it,"  I  replied,  "because  I 
never  will  return  to  Covey." 

"There's  lots  of  work  for  you,  only  I  shouldn't  call  it 
by  that  name,"  said  Camilla.  "Why  don't  you  try  your 
luck  in  the  chorus  of  some  show  or  other?  I've  done 
pretty  well  at  it,  and  it's  come  in  handy  for  Betty.  I  bet 
the  first  manager  that  sees  you  will  fall  over  himself  to 
engage  you.  Eighteen  dollars  a  week  are  not  to  be  sniffed 
at,  especially  with  girls  like  us  thrown  out  into  the  world." 

"And  are  you  in  the  chorus,  Camilla?"  I  asked. 

"Not  much,"  she  replied  tartly,  with  a   deprecating 

137 


138  IN  THE  CURRENT 

shrug  of  her  shoulders.  "I've  been  a  show  girl  for  six 
months.  That's  the  next  thing  to  a  speaking  part,  and 
we  get  twenty  dollars  a  week,  which  proves  how  little 
the  managers  know  their  business.  If  it  wasn't  for  the 
show  girls,  musical  comedy  wouldn't  stand  as  much 
chance  in  Broadway  as  a  Teddy  Kremer  melodrama/' 

"And  if  I  entered  the  chorus,  what  should  I  be  required 
to  do,  Camilla?" 

"Oh,  nothing,  only  dance  a  little  and  sing  a  little  and 
look  pretty  a  whole  lot." 

"But  I  have  never  danced,  Camilla,  and  my  voice  is 
quite  ordinary." 

"That  doesn't  make  any  difference  so  long  as  you're 
good-looking,"  she  responded,  and  sprang  from  the  chair 
at  the  sound  of  the  telephone.  "I'll  bet  that's  Roy;  let 
me  answer  it,"  and  promptly  she  took  the  receiver  from 
the  hook.  She  listened  a  moment.  "Why,  of  course,  it's 
Roy.  .  .  .  Hello,  Roy,  hello,  hello !  You  don't  want 
to  speak  to  me?  Oh,  very  well!"  she  pouted,  and  handed 
the  receiver  to  me.  "It's  you  he  wants,  Frizzie,  and  for 
my  part  you're  welcome  to  him." 

"Hello,  Roy,"  I  said,  "I'm  so  glad  you  called  up." 

"I  knew  that  was  Camilla's  voice  at  the  start,"  he  re- 
plied. "How  are  you,  Frizzie?  I've  just  been  thinking 
you  might  like  a  ride  in  the  park.  Now  that  Camilla's 
there,  you  might  take  her  with  you.  She'll  be  company 
for  you.  I'll  have  a  taxi  at  the  door  for  you  in  ten 
minutes;  I'll  telephone  straight  up  for  it." 

"That'll  be  bully,"  said  Camilla,  as  I  turned  from  the 
telephone.  "Roy's  always  thoughtful  and  always  doing 
the  right  thing  just  at  the  right  moment." 

"He  didn't  seem  surprised  to  find  you  here,  Camilla," 
I  said. 

"He  was  surprised  all  right,  I'll  bet,  only  he's  too  much 


IN  THE  CURRENT  139 

of  a  gentleman  to  show  it.  Between  you  and  me,  Frizzie, 
I  always  did  like  Roy,  and  I  never  could  see  why  he  took 
to  Betty.  You're  the  kind  of  girl  I  would  pick  out  for 
him.  I  always  liked  Roy  far  better  than  Prince.  You 
see,  Prince  is  getting  along.  He'll  never  see  thirty-five 
again,  and  he's  lucky  if  he's  not  past  forty.  I  don't  mind 
that,  though,  and  I  do  like  to  see  the  white  come  around 
his  temples — it  gives  him  such  a  distinguished  look. 
Isn't  it  funny  he  goes  with  one  as  young  as  Roy?  But 
that's  the  way  they  always  do.  I  guess  Prince  has  taught 
Roy  most  of  what  he  knows,  but  Roy  never  will  be  the 
sly  one  Prince  is.  I've  never  trusted  Prince  a  minute, 
and  at  that  I've  had  my  own  trouble  holding  him  down. 
You  may  think  it's  all  fun  here  in  New  York  for  girls 
like  us,  Frizzie,  but  you'll  find  there's  many  the  heart- 
break ;  and  if  you  only  manage  to  keep  your  mouth  from 
turning  down  at  the  corners  you'll  do  more  than  the  most 
of  us." 

"It  is  difficult  for  me  to  follow  you,  Camilla,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  it'll  all  be  plain  enough  to  you  some  day ;  you'll  get 
your  wits  sharpened,"  she  said.  "Come  on,  that  taxi  will 
be  waiting,  and  it's  a  beautiful  day." 

It  was  as  Camilla  had  said.  The  air  was  light  and  the 
sky  was  bright ;  and  everywhere  it  seemed  there  was  a 
consciousness  of  joy  in  living.  I  enjoyed  the  drive  im- 
mensely, and  felt  regret  when  we  headed  homeward  from 
Central  Park. 

"Let's  go  to  my  apartment  for  a  cup  of  tea,"  proposed 
Camilla,  and  I  gladly  consented. 

Camilla  and  Betty  shared  five  rooms  on  the  top 
floor  of  a  large  apartment  house.  Their  windows 
gave  a  distant  view  of  the  Hudson  River,  across  a 
field  of  ugly  housetops.  Camilla  settled  me  in  a  Morris 
chair  in  the  room  she  called  a  parlor.  On  the  mantel- 


140  IN  THE  CURRENT 

piece  was  a  marble  clock.  To  both  sides  of  the  clock 
were  photographs  of  Camilla  and  Betty  in  stage  cos- 
tumes; and  also  photographs  of  Roy  and  Prince.  Other 
pictures  of  all  four  were  on  the  walls.  On  top  of  the  up- 
right piano  was  a  bronze  female  figure,  flung  in  scanty 
drapery  and  poised  on  one  foot,  and  with  the  arms  ex- 
tended. Small  Oriental  rugs  were  thrown  over  the  green 
carpet.  Over  the  door  the  colors  of  Princeton,  Columbia, 
Yale,  Harvard  and  Cornell,  in  pennants,  were  arranged. 
There  were  mahogany  chairs  and  chairs  in  gold.  A  divan 
in  bright  green  took  up  the  corner  opposite  the  piano, 
and  was  piled  high  with  sofa-pillows.  One  pillow  was 
worked  out  of  yellow  ribbons  used  to  bind  panatella 
cigars  by  the  bundle  of  fifty.  Another  pillow  bore  in 
many-colored  silk  a  pipe,  a  cigar,  a  match-holder,  and  in 
the  center  this  ungenerous,  unchivalrous,  sententious 
phrase  was  wrought: 

"A  woman  is  only  a  woman, 
But  a  good  cigar  is  a  smoke." 

A  colored  maid  glided  in  and  glided  out  noiselessly. 
Camilla  poured  tea  from  a  silver  teapot,  and  passed 
wafers  on  a  hand-painted  china  plate.  She  took  her  own 
cup  in  one  hand  and  a  wafer  in  the  other,  then  leaned 
back  comfortably. 

"We're  pretty  cozy  here,"  she  said,  "but  I  don't  mind 
telling  you  I'm  tired  of  Betty.  Things  have  not  been 
moving  smoothly  between  us  of  late,  and  I  told  her  this 
morning  she  would  have  to  get  out.  I've  got  a  proposi- 
tion to  make  to  you,  Frizzie :  How  would  you  like  to  leave 
that  dull,  old  hotel  and  come  here  with  me  ?" 

I  gazed  at  her  in  blank  amazement. 

"I  mean  that,"  she  continued,  not  giving  me  a  chance 


IN  THE  CURRENT  141 

to  speak.  "Betty  and  I  are  through.  I  don't  care  for 
some  of  the  friends  she's  been  running  around  with  lately, 
and  I  don't  want  to  live  here  alone.  You'd  be  perfectly 
at  home  here,  Frizzie,  and  we'll  get  this  apartment  into 
some  sort  of  decent  shape.  You  can  see  what  Betty's 
made  of  it.  All  this  gaudy  truck  is  hers ;  she's  got  no 
taste,  and  I  simply  couldn't  stand  it  a  day  longer.  If  she 
could  only  sit  on  her  temper  she  wouldn't  be  so  bad.  But 
she  lets  it  run  away  with  her.  She's  too  quick  on  the 
jump.  She  doesn't  deliberate  like  I  do;  and  if  you  say 
you'll  come  I'll  have  her  move  out  to-morrow.  She's 
getting  ready  to  move,  anyway,  so  there's  nothing  that 
stands  in  your  way.  Now  what  do  you  say  ?" 

"Why,  Camilla,  I  never  thought — I  don't  know  what 
to  say,"  I  stammered.  "It's  very  good  and  kind  of  you, 
and  the  apartment  is  so  much  better  than  the  hotel — but 
I  can't  afford  it." 

"I  know  how  you  feel,"  she  said.  "I  can't  afford  it — 
that's  the  most  detestable  expression  in  the  language; 
and  I  don't  mean  that  because  you  said  it.  /  can't  afford 
it.  I've  often  said  that  myself,  and  that's  one  of  the 
reasons  I  make  the  offer  to  you.  I've  grown  past  saying 
that  long  ago,  however,  and  some  day  you'll  grow  past  it. 
There's  only  one  thing  for  girls  like  you  and  me  to  do, 
and  that's  to  follow  the  line  of  least  resistance.  It's  what 
the  world  expects  us  to  do,  and  when  we  don't  it  won't 
believe  us.  So  what's  the  difference?" 

"Why,  Camilla,"  I  exclaimed,  "there's  pain  and  sor- 
row in  your  voice." 

"I  wouldn't  be  surprised  if  there  were,"  she  replied. 
"Do  you  know,  there  are  mornings  when  I  wake  up  sur- 
prised to  find  I  have  any  feelings  left.  With  you  and  me 
this  minute,  Frizzie,  it  is  a  plain  question  of  bread  and 
butter,  and  it's  been  that  with  me  for  four  years  now. 


IN  THE  CURRENT 

You  hardly  can  realize  that  yet.  You  never  thought,  no 
more  than  I  did,  when  you  were  at  home  where  your 
bread  and  butter  came  from;  and  you  never  thought 
where  your  clothes  and  the  roof  over  your  head  came 
from.  Well,  you've  got  to  think  of  those  things  when 
you're  alone  in  New  York.  Life  in  New  York  isn't 
poetry — to  get  the  poetry  you've  got  to  be  fed  and  dressed 
for  it ;  and  when  that's  done  the  chances  are  your  soul  will 
be  so  hard  you  will  want  only  diamonds." 

"I  know  we  could  be  friends  and  help  each  other, 
Camilla,"  I  cried,  deeply  moved  by  her  earnestness ;  and 
only  guessing  at  the  significance  of  her  words. 

"Then  it's  settled  between  you  and  me,"  she  responded. 
"Betty  will  go,  and  you  may  come  to-morrow." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  shall  do,  Camilla,"  I  said.  "I  shall 
ask  Roy's  advice." 

"Yes,  if  I  were  you  I  should  ask  Roy,"  said  Camilla 
slowly.  "Roy  will  advise  you,  I'm  sure  he  will."  She 
lifted  the  teapot  and  reached  for  my  cup.  "You'll  have 
a  Uttle  more  tea,  Frizzie?"  she  asked,  and  added  reflect- 
ively: "Yes,  you  might  ask  Roy's  advice,  and  you  and  I 
will  be  here  together  to-morrow." 

"Do  you  say  that,  Camilla,  because  you  think  Roy  will 
advise  me  to  come  to  you  ?"  I  asked. 

"Of  course,  that  is  why  I  say  it,"  she  replied,  rousing 
herself.  "What  else  could  Roy  advise,  if  he's  got  any 
sense?" 

I  was  prattling  about  the  alterations  I  should  make  in 
the  room,  when  Betty  came  swinging  in  with  Prince 
Andrews  at  her  heels.  Betty  dropped  quickly  into  a  chair 
near  the  window. 

"I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  here,  Frizzie,"  she  said, 
"and  I  didn't  as  much  as  think  certain  people  knew  where 
you  were  living." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  143 

"There  is  more  than  one  way  for  certain  people  to  find 
that  out,"  said  Camilla  coldly. 

"Oh,  if  any  one's  going  to  find  out  you  may  bet  it  won't 
slip  past  Camilla,"  retorted  Betty. 

"Now,  now,  let  us  have  only  peace  here,"  said  An- 
drews, stepping  forward  from  near  the  door  and  bowing 
before  me.  "Ah,  my  dear,  Miss  Frizzie,  it  delights  my 
heart  to  see  you  once  again,  all  the  more  as  this  meeting 
is  so  unexpected.  I  trust  that  when  I  call  again  you  shall 
be  in  your  hotel,  because  it  gave  me  acute  disappointment 
not  to  find  you  there  yesterday  and  to-day." 

"Quit  with  that  line  of  hot  air,  Prince,"  ordered  Betty. 
"I  didn't  come  here  to  listen  to  that ;  I  came  here  to  talk 
business." 

"I  must  pay  my  compliments  to  this  young  lady,"  ob- 
jected Andrews. 

"You'll  have  to  do  that  some  other  time,"  insisted  Betty 
angrily.  "Go  over  there  and  sit  on  that  couchj  and  not 
a  word  from  you  till  I  get  through  talking."  Andrews 
hesitated.  "I  feel  like  ripping  things  up  a  bit,"  said  Betty ; 
and  he  went  and  sat  on  the  divan. 

"It's  all  off  between  you  and  me  then,  Camilla?"  asked 
Betty  aggressively. 

"Yes,  it's  all  off,  as  you  say,"  replied  Camilla. 

"Well,  you  couldn't  get  me  to  stay  here  another  day 
if  you  were  to  pay  me  for  it,"  asserted  Betty.  "We  can't 
part  too  soon  to  suit  me.  I  don't  like  people  that  think 
they're  too  good  for  anybody  else.  Prince  and  I  will  get 
along  all  right — a  sight  better  than  you  and  he  ever  got 
along.  You  can  take  Roy  and  welcome  to  him — if  you 
think  you  have  a  ghost  of  a  show  to  keep  him  from  some- 
body else,  whose  name  I'm  not  mentioning  now." 

"I  think  I  know  who  you  mean,  Betty,"  said  Camilla 


144  IN  THE  CURRENT 

quietly,  "and  I  want  you  to  understand  you  cannot  speak 
about  her  here  or  anywhere  else  in  my  presence." 

"Oh,  I  can't,  can't  I,  Miss  Nifty?"  retorted  Betty. 
Well,  I'm  not  going  to  bother  you;  I'd  rather  talk  to 
Frizzie  herself."  She  moved  quickly  in  her  chair  and 
faced  me.  "I  had  no  better  luck  than  Prince,"  she  said. 
"When  I  called  in  the  hotel  they  said  you  were  out,  and 
that  they  didn't  know  when  you  would  return.  That's  the 
worst  of  hotels — you  give  them  an  order  and  it's  in  at 
one  ear  and  out  at  the  other.  When  are  you  going  to 
leave  that  Old  Hens'  Roost?" 

"Why  I  haven't  thought  of  it  yet,  Betty,"  I  replied  at 
once,  and  without  thought  to  deceive  her. 

"Well,  when  you  get  ready  to  pack  out  of  there,  Friz- 
zie, let  me  know.  I  rented  a  fine  apartment  just  an  hour 
ago,  and  it's  too  big  for  one.  Maybe  you'd  like  to  run 
over  and  look  at  it." 

"I  say,  Betty,"  interposed  Andrews,  "isn't  that  putting 
it  a  little  raw  ?" 

"Mind  your  business,  Prince,"  said  Betty  sharply.  "I 
know  what  I'm  talking  about.  It  makes  this  place  look 
shiney,  and  you  won't  find  a  stick  of  old  furniture  in  it. 
All  the  truck  I've  got  in  here  is  going  straight  to  the 
second-hand  store;  and  I'll  have  an  apartment  the  way 
I  want  it  for  the  first  time  in  my  life.  We  could  ride  over 
with  Prince  in  a  taxi,  Frizzie;  you'll  come,  won't  you, 
Prince?" 

"Gladly,  if  you  wish  it,  Betty,"  answered  Andrews. 

"Are  you  sure  you've  arranged  to  have  your  things 
taken  away  this  afternoon,  Betty?"  asked  Camilla,  with 
cool  deliberation. 

"Thank  heavens,  I  have,"  retorted  Betty,  "but  that 
isn't  what  I'm  talking  about.  Will  you  take  a  run 
around  there,  just  to  see  what  it  looks  like,  Frizzie?" 


IN  THE  CURRENT  145 

"Thank  you,  Betty,"  I  said,  "I  don't  care  to  go— at 
least,  not  to-day." 

"Oh,  very  well,  to-morrow  or  the  next  day  will  do  as 
well,"  she  replied.  "There's  no  hurry  about  it,  and  I'll 
run  down  to  the  hotel  and  drive  you  up.  You'll  like  it,  I 
know — it's  a  little  gem  of  a  place."  She  arose  hastily 
and  moved  to  the  door.  "Come  on,  Prince,  the  air  around 
here's  too  frigid  to  suit  me." 

"I'm  glad  you  find  it  so,"  said  Camilla,  lying  back 
easily  in  her  chair. 

"I've  had  enough  of  you,  all  right,"  said  Betty,  trying 
to  be  on  her  dignity.  "You  were  mighty  glad  to  have 
me  once,  and  you  think  there's  nobody  half  as  smart  as 
you  are,  but  we'll  see  who's  going  to  come  out  ahead  in 
this  little  game.  Ta,  ta !"  she  ended  derisively,  and  made 
her  exit  with  a  flourish. 

"I'll  say  farewell  for  the  present,  Frizzie,"  said  An- 
drews with  a  bowj  "and  you  also,  Camilla." 

"Oh,  you  needn't  include  me,  Prince,"  said  Camilla. 

"Come  on,  Prince,"  sounded  Betty's  voice  from  the 
hall. 

"Hush,"  said  Andrews  with  a  finger  on  his  lips, 
"Betty's  trying  to  ride  me  with  spurs  and  a  whip.  But 
you  know,  Camilla,  you  know." 

"Yes,  I  know,  Prince,"  said  Camilla  suggestively,  "and 
you  had  better  be  going." 

"You're  right  there,  Camilla,"  replied  Andrews.  "I've 
got  to  humor  her  a  bit."  He  went  into  the  hall.  "Go 
ahead  now,  Betty,"  rang  his  voice.  "Go  ahead." 

"No;  go  ahead  yourself,"  came  back  from  Betty 
promptly.  And  in  another  moment  the  door  was  shut 
with  a  bang. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

I  RODE  back  alone  to  the  hotel,  and  found  Roy  nervously 
walking  back  and  forth  on  the  sidewalk.  I  led  him 
around  the  block,  and  told  him  of  Camilla's  plan  and 
invitation.  At  first  he  expressed  doubt,  but  quickly  he 
approved  of  it.  He  even  progressed  to  the  point  of 
crediting  Camilla  with  a  "brilliant  idea."  He  even  went 
so  far  as  to  persuade  me,  and  the  following  afternoon  he 
came  in  his  automobile  and  took  me  over  to  the  apart- 
ment. 

On  the  way  I  broached  the  subject  of  work.  He 
glanced  at  me  curiously;  and  bluntly  said  he  knew  a 
theatrical  manager  who  might  be  interested  in  me. 

"Roy,"  I  said  with  all  the  severity  I  could  command, 
"you  have  spoken  of  'theatrical  managers'  several  times, 
and  I  tell  you  once  for  all  I  will  not  go  on  the  stage." 

We  were  at  the  door  of  the  house  where  Camilla  lived, 
and  he  laughed  as  he  assisted  me  to  alight.  "We  shall 
discuss  that  later,"  he  said.  "The  first  thing  is  to  get  you 
settled.  After  that  it  will  be  time  enough,  and  meanwhile 
give  my  compliments  to  Camilla."  I  stood  on  the  side- 
walk while  he  rode  off,  and  near  the  corner  he  looked 
back  and  waved  his  hand  to  me. 

Camilla  received  me  with  a  kiss,  and  a  pretense  at  an 
embrace.  She  insisted  upon  taking  off  my  hat  with  her 
own  hands,  then  led  me  into  the  parlor  and  showed  me  a 
vase  filled  with  flowers. 

"Look  at  those  beauties!"  she  said.  "That's  what 
Roy  thinks  of  you." 

146 


IN  THE   CURRENT  147 

"Roy  sent  those — and  to  me?"  I  exclaimed  in  delight. 

"Yes,  Roy  sent  them,"  she  replied,  as  if  in  regret. 

"You  didn't  get  any,  Camilla?"  I  asked. 

"Oh,  that  doesn't  matter;  I've  had  so  many  at  one 
time  and  another  they  have  almost  lost  their  charm  for 
me,"  she  answered.  "But  let's  sit  down  and  have  a 
minute's  chat.  A  lot  has  happened  since  I  saw  you 
yesterday.  Betty  has  cleared  out,  and  I  guess  it's  all 
ended  between  us.  She  had  her  head  in  the  air  last 
night,  but  I  didn't  mind.  Only  if  she  goes  too  far  I'll 
get  her  fired — I  stand  in  with  the  stage  manager,  and 
she's  been  warned  more  than  once.  But  we'll  forget 
Betty,  and  talk  about  yourself,  Frizzie.  If  you've  changed 
your  mind,  you  can  get  a  chance  down  in  the  show  now. 
One  of  the  girls  is  leaving — she's  going  to  be  married. 
You  can't  imagine  how  many  girls  leave  the  companies 
to  marry  well.  They  have  a  better  chance  than  other 
girls  to  meet  men  able  to  support  them,  and  you  might 
take  a  try  at  it.  If  you  don't  like  the  job,  of  course, 
you  can  go  somewhere  else.  That's  one  advantage  of 
having  a  free  foot." 

"Why,  do  you  know,  Camilla,  I  have  never  been  in  a 
theatre  ?" 

"That's  all  the  better,"  she  replied  with  alacrity.  "Ex- 
perience doesn't  count  with  a  girl  on  the  stage.  What 
they  want  is  prettiness.  I  never  knew  a  stage  manager 
to  be  interested  in  a  chorus  girl's  brains.  All  they  care 
about  a  girl  is  for  her  face  and  her  figure,  and  whether 
she  can  wear  good  clothes.  You  needn't  worry  about 
that,  Frizzie,  you'll  get  your  chance  at  it,  all  right;  and 
then  it's  up  to  you  to  get  on  the  best  way  you  can.  The 
stage  isn't  a  bed  of  roses,  as  some  people  think  it  is, 
but  it's  fascinating  just  the  same.  I  guess  it's  the  only 
place  for  you  and  me.  Neither  of  us  was  born  for  real 


i48  IN  THE  CURRENT 

work ;  by  right  we  ought  to  be  the  wives  of  millionaires. 
I  guess  we've  got  millionaire  tastes,  and  that  explains 
it  all.  But  you've  got  to  take  the  New  York  millionaires 
as  you  find  them,  and  most  of  them  are  married." 

"Roy  isn't  married,"  I  asserted  proudly. 

"No,  he's  one  that's  without  a  wife-attachment." 

"And  Prince  Andrews  isn't  married,"  I  pursued. 

"No,  his  marriage  is  a  thing  of  the  past,"  she  re- 
sponded. "Andrews  married  young,  repented  young, 
and  now  he's  growing  old  disgracefully."  Camilla  was 
pleased  with  her  attempt  at  humor.  "That's  nearly  bad 
enough  to  pass  as  a  joke  in  musical  comedy,"  she 
laughed,  and  grew  serious.  "Why  hasn't  Roy  taken  you 
to  the  theatre?"  she  asked. 

"I  don't  know,  Camilla." 

"I  guess  it's  because  you  haven't  got  those  clothes 
from  Sylvie  yet.  Oh,  you  needn't  look  as  if  you  feel 
humiliated — you've  got  to  get  used  to  that  sort  of  thing. 
A  woman  doesn't  stand  much  chance  in  New  York  until 
she's  well  dressed — she  doesn't  stand  any  chance  at  all. 
And  what's  a  girl  going  to  do?  No  man  cares  where 
you  get  the  clothes  so  long  as  you've  got  them.  That's 
all  they  care  about,  and  if  you  haven't  got  them  you  may 
rest  yourself  at  home,  for  no  man  ever  will  come  near 
you." 

"You  mean  to  say,  Camilla,  it  isn't  so  much  myself 
as  the  clothes  I  wear?" 

Before  Camilla  could  answer  Betty  appeared  in  the 
door.  She  flung  a  key  on  the  floor,  and  looked  at  me 
in  fury. 

"I  thought  so!"  she  cried.  "I  thought  this  was  what 
was  up,  and  I  didn't  give  it  away  yesterday,  did  I? 
There's  your  key  for  you — for  the  both  of  you !  I  took 
it  with  me  to  come  back  just  like  this.  I  took  the  pre- 


IN  THE  CURRENT  149 

caution  of  going  down  to  the  hotel  first.  No  Frizzie 
there ;  and  now  I'm  here  on  the  stroke  of  the  clock !  We 
were  up  to  the  same  trickery,  Miss  Camilla,  but  you 
couldn't  play  in  the  open  like  I  did — you  wanted  to  play 
in  the  dark !" 

"Stop!"  commanded  Camilla,  rising  and  facing  her. 
"This  is  my  apartment,  and  if  you  don't  leave  quietly  I 
will  telephone  downstairs  and  have  you  put  out." 

The  threat  added  to  Betty's  wrath.  She  slammed  the 
door,  and  placed  her  back  against  it.  "You  won't  do 
anything  of  the  kind,  Camilla  Delmont!"  she  shouted 
defiantly.  "Til  leave  this  flat  when  I'm  good  and  ready. 
I'm  going  to  speak  what's  on  my  mind  first,  and  don't 
either  of  you  lay  a  finger  on  me  or  you'll  get  the  worst 
of  it." 

"You  won't  say  anything  here,  Betty,"  said  Camilla 
sternly. 

"I  will  say  it,"  retorted  the  angry  girl.  "I'll  say  all  I 
want  to  say,  and  I'd  like  to  see  the  one's  going  to  stop 
me." 

Camilla's  fingers  closed  on  a  book  on  the  table. 

"Go  on,  throw  it,"  dared  Betty.  "Throw  it,  and  I'll 
make  as  big  a  wreck  of  you  as  I  will  of  this  room,  and 
of  her  sitting  there." 

She  indicated  me  with  a  look  of  contempt,  and  I  went 
toward  her.  "Oh,  Betty,"  I  implored,  "I  thought  we  all 
were  friends." 

"Friends?  That's  a  good  one,"  she  retorted,  and  in 
bitter  reproach  added:  "Yes,  we  were  friends,  Camilla 
and  I,  until  you  came  along." 

"You  mustn't  bring  Frizzie  into  it,"  said  Camilla. 

"I  will  bring  her  into  it !"  cried  Betty,  and  confronted 
me  in  wild  wrath.  "It  was  you  caused  all  the  trouble. 
We  were  all  right  until  you  came  around.  You,  you; 


150  IN  THE  CURRENT 

it's  you  that's  done  it,  and  do  you  know  what  I'm  going 
to  do  to  you?  You  don't?  Well,  I'll  open  your  eyes — 
I'll  show  you  the  little  fool  you  are!" 

"Don't  be  a  simpleton,  Betty,"  said  Camilla. 

"Not  a  simpleton,  eh?  Oh,  you  always  were  clever  at 
that,  Camilla,  but  the  time's  past  when  you  can  wind 
me  round  your  finger.  I've  had  my  eyes  opened — just 
as  I'm  going  to  open  them  for  this  little  country  inter- 
loper." She  stamped  her  foot  at  me.  "What  brought 
you  here,  anyway?  Why  didn't  you  stay  at  home  in  the 
cabbage  patch  where  you  belong?  Why,  I  say?" 

"I  don't  know,  Betty,"  I  replied,  in  complete  bewil- 
derment. 

"Of  course,  you  don't  know.  That's  been  you  ever 
since  you  started  edging  between  Roy  and  me.  You 
don't  know  that  Roy  and  I  were  as  you  and  he  are  now, 
do  you  ?  You  don't  know  that  Camilla  and  Prince  never 
had  a  cross  word  until  you  blinded  his  eyes?  No,  you 
don't;  and  you  don't  know  Camilla  and  I  have  parted 
and  become  enemies  because  each  one  of  us  has  been 
trying  to  keep  on  her  feet — and  all  because  of  you !" 

"Please,  Betty,  don't  go  any  further?"  requested  Ca- 
milla impatiently. 

"Yes,  I  will  go  further.  It's  not  you  I  blame  so  much, 
Camilla,  as  this  kid  that's  such  an  angel — which  she 
isn't."  I  put  my  hands  to  my  face  in  shame,  but  she 
went  on  as  passionately  as  before.  "You  have  great 
ideas  about  all  that's  going  to  happen  in  New  York!  I 
suppose  you're  thinking  of  becoming  Roy's  wife!  A 
nice,  respectable  one  you'd  be  to  come  into  millions  that 
way!  But  you'll  get  fooled,  just  as  I  got  fooled.  I 
thought  the  same,  and  if  Roy  saw  me  in  the  gutter  this 
minute  the  most  he'd  do  for  me  would  be  to  hit  me  a 
kick." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  151 

"You  mustn't  say  that,"  I  almost  screamed.  "You 
mustn't.  Do  you  hear?  You  mustn't!" 

"I'll  say  anything  I  like,"  she  flared  back.  "Roy  would 
kick  me,  and  the  time  will  come  when  he'll  be  ready  to 
kick  you.  They  all  do  it,  and  it'll  be  your  turn  when  the 
next  pretty  face — like  the  one  you've  got  now — comes 
along.  Camilla  knew  what  your  face  meant  when  she 
saw  it,  and  I  knew,  too.  We  didn't  tell  each  other  what 
we  were  thinking,  but  we  acted  just  the  same.  We  knew 
Roy  and  Prince  thought  they  were  smitten  on  you;  we 
knew  neither  of  us  stood  a  show.  We've  been  too  long 
at  this  game  not  to  know  a  man  doesn't  care  a  cent  what 
becomes  of  you  when  he's  tired,  and  Camilla  laid  wires 
and  I  laid  wires.  Roy  couldn't  start  to  pull  you  down 
where  he  wanted  you  by  getting  you  in  a  flat  with  me — 
for  I  was  Roy's  girl.  Prince  couldn't  start  to  drag  you 
down  with  the  help  of  Camilla — because  Camilla  was 
Prince's  girl.  And  Roy  and  Prince  were  friends  and 
they  couldn't  come  out  in  the  open  and  cut  each  other's 
throats  over  you.  Camilla  knew  how  the  ground  lay, 
and  I  knew.  She  knew  on  which  side  her  bread  was 
buttered,  and  I  knew,  too;  and  when  she  schemed  with 
Roy  to  get  you  I  turned  around  and  schemed  with  An- 
drews. There's  what  it  all  is,  you  little  innocent  fool, 
you!  Did  you  think  for  a  minute  this  apartment  comes 
from  eighteen  dollars  a  week  in  the  chorus?  What  did 
Camilla  or  I  care  for  you?  We  cared  just  as  much  as 
one  girl  cares  for  another.  We  cared  just  because  we 
were  thinking  of  rent  day,  which  comes  one  day  every 
month.  We  cared  because  we  were  thinking  of  a  roof 
over  our  heads,  and  a  coat  on  our  backs." 

"Betty,  Betty,  I'll  go  away,"  I  cried  in  anguish  of 
spirit.  • 

"Go  away!"  she  returned  ironically.     "Yes,  you'll  go 


152  IN  THE  CURRENT 

away !  You'll  go  like  the  rest  of  us — when  you're  carried 
out  feet  first.  What  kind  of  a  dream  did  you  have  when 
Roy  was  spending  his  time  and  money  on  you?  What 
kind  of  a  dream  did  you  have  when  Prince  Andrews 
brought  you  flowers,  and  kept  hanging  around  the  hotel  ? 
If  you  hadn't  been  such  a  fool  and  stuck  down  in  that 
hotel  you  wouldn't  be  dreaming  now,  no,  you  wouldn't! 
You'd  have  your  eyes  open  so  that  you'd  see  Camilla  and 
I  were  bribed  to  get  you." 

"Camilla,  you  were  bribed!"  I  exclaimed. 

"I  was  not,"  answered  Camilla  quickly.  "I  meant  all 
for  the  best.  Betty  knows  that." 

"Yes,  you  meant  it  for  the  best!"  railed  Betty.  "You 
meant  it  for  the  best  when  you  got  me  out  of  here  and 
got  Frizzie  in — for  the  price  Roy's  paying  you!  But 
I'm  not  going  to  let  you  pluck  the  plums  while  I  go 
hungry.  If  Prince's  going  to  throw  me  down,  I'll  put 
Roy  in  the  way  of  throwing  you  down." 

"I  don't  believe  a  word  of  all  you  have  said,"  I  as- 
serted vehemently.  "I  don't  believe  that  Roy  or  Prince 
ever  tried  to  deceive  me,  or  that  Roy  ever  was  interested 
in  you." 

"You  don't!  You  don't!"  cried  Betty,  almost  in  a 
frenzy.  "Here,  I'll  show  you  something!  Look  at  the 
backs  of  my  hands — my  hands  here  that  I  hold  out! 
You  see  the  rings  on  my  fingers.  Roy  gave  me  those — 
every  one  of  them — that  diamond,  and  opal,  and  pearl, 
and  ruby — every  one  of  them  Roy  gave  me!  Will  you 
believe  that?  You  see  this  diamond  brooch  I'm  wear- 
ing? Roy  gave  me  that.  You  see  this  comb  set  with 
diamonds  in  my  hair?  Roy  gave  me  that!" 

"You  never  can  make  me  believe  it,"  I  affirmed,  my 
voice  quivering  in  emotion. 

"Ask  Camilla  then.     Ask  Camilla  where  she  got  the 


IN  THE  CURRENT  153 

rings  she's  wearing,  and  her  brooches  and  her  combs. 
Ask  her  if  Prince  Andrews  didn't  foot  the  bills.  Ask  her 
where  all  this  furniture,  this  flat — where  you're  going  to 
live — comes  from.  But  you  don't  have  to  know!"  she 
screamed.  "You  know  already.  Where  did  you  get  the 
money  for  clothes  from  Sylvie?" 

Camilla  came  forward.  "I  gave  Frizzie  the  money  for 
that,"  she  said.  "If  you  wish  you  can  make  that  part 
of  the  plot." 

"I'll  let  it  go  at  that,"  replied  Betty.  "One  lie's  as 
good  as  another." 

I  could  endure  it  no  longer.  I  sank  into  a  chair,  and 
cried  in  bitterness  keener  than  any  I  had  felt  in  all  my 
life. 

"The  floodgates  are  up  at  last!"  I  heard  Betty  say. 
"It's  time  for  me  to  be  going." 

"I  think  it  is  time,  Betty,"  said  Camilla. 

"Oh,  very  well,  if  you  say  so,"  sneered  Betty,  "only 
tears  won't  mend  what's  happened  to  me." 

She  went  out,  and  I  felt  Camilla's  hand  on  my  shoulder. 

"Don't  take  on  so,  Frizzie,"  she  said.  "Not  a  word  of 
all  she  said  is  true." 

"Don't  touch  me,  please,  Camilla,"  I  said,  rising.  "I'm 
going." 

"Going!    Where?' 

"I'm  going  back  to  the  hotel." 

"Don't  be  a  fool,  Frizzie." 

"I'm  going." 

"I  suppose  you  think  I'm  contemptible?"  she  said,  and 
for  the  first  time  I  detected  emotion  in  her  tone. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,  Camilla." 

"Oh,  yes,  you  did ;  you're  thinking  it  now,"  she  replied. 
''You  consider  me  your  worst  enemy,  and  maybe  you're 
right.  I  know  when  it's  useless  to  argue.  As  Betty 


i54  IN  THE  CURRENT 

would  say,  'the  game's  up,'  and  your're  going  to  run 
from  me  as  if  I  were  a  leper.  I  don't  blame  you,  Frizzie, 
but  before  you  go  I  wish  to  say  a  word."  I  looked  at 
her,  and  her  lips  quivered.  "Not  in  my  own  defense, 
either,"  she  added,  "although,  God  knows,  there's  some- 
thing that  might  be  said  on  that  score.  Sit  down  one 
minute.  Probably  it's  the  last  word  ever  will  pass  be- 
tween us,  and  you've  got  time  enough  for  that." 

I  did  as  she  requested,  and  we  faced  each  other  across 
the  narrow  table.  She  strained  forward,  and  looked  at 
me  intently. 

"Blunt  talk  like  Betty's  is  what  is  wanted  now,"  she 
said,  "because  you  know,  arid  I  know  you  know.  You're 
going,  Frizzie,  and  you'll  never  come  back;  and  when- 
ever you  think  of  me  after  this  you'll  shudder.  You  think 
this  very  minute  I'm  one  of  the  worst  on  earth ;  you  think 
Betty's  an  angel  compared  to  me.  Maybe  you're  right, 
but  I'm  not  going  to  talk  about  Betty,  and  I'm  not  going 
to  defend  myself,  I  say. 

"Only  this :  Was  I  altogether  wrong  in  what  I  did  by 
you  when  your  running  away  from  home  and  taking  up 
with  Roy  indicated  that  you  wanted  to  go  straight  to 
hell?  That's  not  polite  talk,  is  it?  It  doesn't  strike  me 
as  that,  but  it's  just  as  polite  as  the  truth  will  let  it. 
You're  thinking  I'm  an  awful  sinner,  but  let  me  tell  you 
something : 

"When  I  came  to  New  York  I  wasn't  out  of  a  good 
home  like  you  are,  and  I  wasn't  filled  with  learning  like 
you.  I  didn't  talk  two  or  three  languages,  and  I  didn't 
know  the  name  of  one  poet  from  another.  But  that  didn't 
say  I  wasn't  born  to  wish  for  the  comforts  or  the  luxuries 
of  life,  or  whatever  you  care  to  call  them.  I  ran  away 
from  a  drunken  father,  and  I  worked  down  in  a  de- 
partment store  in  Fourteenth  Street  until  I  couldn't  stand 


IN  THE  CURRENT  155 

it  a  day  longer.  I  was  getting  my  six  dollars  a  week, 
and  paying  my  four  dollars  and  fifty  cents  a  week  for 
board.  I  walked  three  miles  night  and  morning  to  save 
^rfare,  and  I  went  without  lunch.  At  the  end  of  six 
months,  when  I  wanted  a  pair  of  shoes,  I  still  owed  seven 
dollars  on  a  dress  that  I  had  bought  on  an  installment 
plan — paying  fifty  cents  a  week — and  for  all  that  I  stood 
ten  hours  a  day  on  my  feet  six  days  in  the  week,  and 
took  the  ill-humor  of  women  who  wouldn't  be  satisfied, 
and  took  the  insolence  of  floorwalkers  and  other  men,  aye, 
and  took  worse  than  that.  And  at  the  end  of  the  six 
months  where  were  the  things  I  longed  for  in  my  heart? 
I  did  have  a  natural  desire  for  men  who  were  something 
better,  or  acted  better,  than  day  laborers.  I  never  could 
go  around  cheap  restaurants,  and  drink  out  of  cups  with- 
out handles.  I  couldn't  listen  to  the  coarse,  vulgar  talk, 
and  I  couldn't  endure  to  have  a  man,  with  his  hair  parted 
in  the  middle  and  his  nails  black  and  broken,  snatch  my 
handkerchief  and  press  it  to  his  lips  and  press  it  to  my 
lips  as  he  passed  it  back.  It  was  worse  than  my  home  and 
my  drunken  father,  I  tell  you,  and  I  went  on  the  stage, 
grabbing  at  it  like  a  drowning  person  at  a  straw.  And 
for  a  time  I  was  happy,  and  I  was  able  to  pay  my  board, 
and  to  buy  some  clothes,  and  to  ride  in  the  street-cars. 
You  may  think  that's  funny  about  riding  in  the  street- 
cars, but  they  were  a  luxury  those  days.  Then  one  night 
one  of  the  girls  asked  me  if  I  wouldn't  go  to  supper  with 
her;  that  a  friend  of  hers  who  had  been  sitting  'out 
front'  the  night  before,  had  seen  me  and  liked  me  and 
had  asked  her  to  bring  me  to  meet  him.  The  girl  said 
there  was  no  harm  in  it,  and  I  went  and  met  Prince 
Andrews.  And  he  was  so  polite  and  courteous ;  so  dif- 
ferent to  all  other  men  I  had  met,  that  I  was  carried  away 
with  him.  He  never  said  a  wrong  word  to  me,  but  he  sent 


156  IN  THE  CURRENT 

cabs  around  for  me  to  go  out  riding  and  take  my  girl 
friends  out;  and  he  sent  me  flowers,  and  had  me  photo- 
graphed, and  took  me  here  and  there,  and  sent  me  a 
diamond  ring  in  a  box  of  candy;  and  flattered  me  in  a 
hundred  ways  until  I  thought  I  was  living  in  earnest  and 
my  head  was  turned,  and — well,  here  I  am  now,  Frizzie ! 

"I  could  spit  on  Andrews;  I  despise  him  that  much. 
He  turns  to  Betty,  as  if  my  feelings  were  torn  to  tatters, 
as  if  I  had  no  feelings  left.  He's  right;  I  haven't  any 
feelings  left,  and  it's  lucky  for  me  I  haven't.  Who  cares 
for  me?  I'm  a  nobody — a  worse  than  a  nobody — and 
Andrews  is  respectable.  If  he  were  to  die  to-morrow 
some  preacher  would  grow  eloquent  over  his  grave.  If 
I  were  to  die — who  would  speak  over  my  grave?  Oh, 
Frizzie,  it's  a  strange  world!  If  you're  a  man  and  you're 
found  out,  it's  all  right;  if  you're  a  woman  and  you're 
found  out,  it's  all  wrong.  I  wasn't  grasping  and  avari- 
cious, either,  and,  so  help  me  God,  Frizzie,  if  there  was 
one  who  would  give  me  a  chance  there  isn't  another  in 
the  world  would  be  squarer  than  I'd  be.  You  think  I'm 
cold  and  calculating,  but  I'm  not.  It's  that  I'm  on  the 
defensive.  I'm  trying  to  hold  up  my  head.  I'm  trying 
to  keep  my  feet  from  slipping  any  further.  I'm  trying 
to  hold  on  till  a  miracle  may  happen  and  I'll  be  safe.  I'm 
trying  to  stand  up  straight,  and  if  the  day  ever  comes 
when  I  can  do  it  I'll  snap  my  ringers  in  the  face  of  Roy 
Wesson  and  Prince  Andrews  and  tell  them  I'm  stronger 
than  they  ever  can  hope  to  be.  But  I'm  fighting  single- 
handed.  I've  got  to  fight  single-handed,  because  men 
won't  help  me,  and  because  women  will  treat  me  worse 
than  men — as  you'll  treat  me  after  this,  Frizzie." 

"Camilla,  Camilla,  I  won't,  I  won't!"  I  cried,  going  to 
the  table  and  giving  her  an  affectionate  embrace.  "But 
I  am  going,"  I  added. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  157 

"Of  course,  you're  going,"  was  all  she  said. 

Five  minutes  later  I  left  her.  She  had  not  moved 
from  the  chair,  but  her  head  had  gone  down  until  it 
rested  on  the  table  between  her  outstretched  arms.  I 
went  up  behind  her.  "Camilla?"  I  said.  She  raised  a 
tear-stained  face.  I  kissed  her,  and  with  a  great  sob  she 
dropped  her  head  between  her  arms  again.  I  stole  away, 
and  closed  the  door  softly. 

The  elevator  seemed  to  sink  down  through  oppressive 
gloom.  But  when  I  reached  the  street  the  sun  was  shin- 
ing, and  my  spirits  rose.  My  tears  were  dry.  I  stepped 
out  with  more  confidence  than  I  had  known  before,  and 
almost  smiling  at  the  illusions  which  had  lured  me  on. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

I  FOUND  my  room  in  the  hotel  vacant,  and  it  was  like 
a  home-coming.  I  sat  down  to  think  of  plans,  and  still 
was  puzzling  when  Winnie  Caine  called.  We  greeted 
each  other  like  long-lost  sisters.  She  was  sorry  for  hav- 
ing parted  from  me  in  ill-humor ;  I  was  sorry  for  having 
merited  her  displeasure.  We  talked  long  and  we  talked 
earnestly;  and  in  the  course  of  our  conversation  I  con- 
ceived a  scheme,  but  I  did  not  unfold  it  to  her. 

Winnie  wished  me  to  come  to  her  home ;  she  wondered 
why  she  had  not  thought  of  it  before.  I  was  delighted 
with  her  offer,  but  I  insisted  upon  delaying  a  final  de- 
cision two  days.  I  had  my  plan,  and  I  was  not  going 
to  abandon  it ! 

Winnie  asked  me  to  tell  all  that  had  happened,  but  I 
refused.  That  brought  us  to  a  better  and  more  friendly 
footing.  She  was  gratified  I  had  learned  at  last,  "to 
keep  my  mouth  shut."  She  told  me  every  girl  should 
learn  to  do  that,  but  that  few  learned,  no  matter  what 
their  experiences.  She  was  insistent,  though,  in  asking 
my  reason  for  not  taking  my  little  satchel  and  accom- 
panying her  home  forthwith. 

"I  shall  tell  you  this  much,  Winnie,"  I  said.  "I  am 
going  to  be  downright  wicked.  I  have  an  account  to 
settle,  and  I  am  going  to  settle  it  .  Instead  of  being  shot 
at,  I  am  going  to  do  some  shooting  myself.  I  know  I 
should  not  do  it,  yet  I  will  do  it  as  a  concession  to  my 
pride.  I  want  to  prove  I  am  not  totally  devoid  of  brains ; 

158 


IN  THE  CURRENT  159 

I  am  going  to  scratch — scratch  just  like  a  cat.  Do  you 
think  I  could  do  that,  Winnie?" 

"I  wouldn't  want  you  to  try  being  a  cat  on  me," 
she  replied.  "I'll  bet  you've  got  claws  hidden  under  the 
velvet." 

"Well,  that's  what  I  intend,"  I  said,  "and  two  days,  I 
think,  will  be  sufficient  for  my  revenge." 

She  had  gone  only  a  few  minutes  when  Roy  called. 
I  received  the  news  over  the  telephone  from  the  hotel 
office,  and  went  down  to  meet  him  without  the  slightest 
perturbation.  I  hurried  to  him  with  my  hand  held  out, 
and  he  did  not  seem  to  know  what  to  make  of  it. 

"I  should  like  a  short,  brisk  walk,  Roy,"  I  said.  "Come, 
let's  go  out." 

When  we  had  reached  the  street  Roy  could  contain 
himself  no  longer :  "Hang  it  all,  Frizzie,"  he  said,  "I've 
done  wrong,  and  I'm  heartily  ashamed  of  myself.  Tell 
me  to  go  and  jump  in  the  river,  and  I'll  do  it." 

"Camilla  has  told  you  I  know  all  about  your  treach- 
ery?" I  suggested. 

"Don't  rub  it  in,  Frizzie,"  he  begged.  "It's  bad  enough 
as  it  is.  I've  been  a  cad.  I've  been  such  a  cad  I  can't 
even  ask  your  forgiveness." 

"Does  your  remorse  come  from  the  fact  I  discovered 
your  baseness  before  it  was  too  late,  Roy  ?"  I  asked. 

"Don't,  don't,  Frizzie!"  he  pleaded.  "I'm  so  guilty  I 
haven't  a  word  to  say  in  my  own  defense." 

"Roy,  can  you  keep  a  secret?'  I  asked,  and  looked  him 
squarely  in  the  eyes.  My  heart  thumped  violently,  but 
I'm  sure  I  did  not  show  it  in  my  face. 

"I  could  keep  anything  a  secret  for  you,  Frizzie,"  he 
replied. 

"Then  I'll  tell  you,  Roy,"  I  said.  "I  didn't  come  away 
from  Camilla  because  I  thought  myself  or  wished  myself 


160  IN  THE  CURRENT 

any  better  than  she  is.     I  came  away  because  I  decided 
I  wouldn't  let  her  into  the  secret.    Do  you  understand?" 

All  the  trouble  passed  from  his  looks.  "Do  I  under- 
stand?" he  exclaimed  enthusiastically.  "Do  I  under- 
stand !  Well,  I  guess,  yes !  Say,  Frizzie,  you're  a  brick, 
a  real  brick.  I  always  knew  there  wasn't  another  except 
yourself !" 

Oh,  the  pity  of  it!  I  felt  a  desire  to  fly  at  him,  but 
I  did  not  betray  my  feelings.  "Camilla  nor  Betty  must 
never  know,  and  you  must  keep  it  all  from  Andrews. 
Swear  to  me  that  you  never  will  speak." 

"I  swear  to  you  on  my  honor,  Frizzie,"  he  replied. 

"On  your  honor,  Roy!"  I  responded.  "I  am  satisfied 
with  that.  And  you  never  must  whisper  a  word  to  Ca- 
milla how  I  deceived  her — she  thinks  I'm  an  angel." 

"I  will  never  whisper  it,  Frizzie,  depend  on  that." 

"You're  not  surprised  at  what  I  have  told  you,  Roy?" 

"Why  should  I  be  surprised?"  Lordy,  no;  I'm  only 
surprised  at  my  luck — by  Jove,  Frizzie,  you'll  never  regret 
this  day." 

"But,  Roy,"  I  pursued,  without  a  quiver  in  my  voice, 
"I'm  not  what  you  imagine  me  to  be.  I'm  very  selfish, 
and  I'm  jealous — I'm  jealous  of  all  Camilla's  got  and  of 
all  Betty's  got.  Why  should  they  have  such  luxury  while 
I  have  to  live  in  a  dark,  cramped  room?" 

"You  don't  think  I'd  let  you  stick  in  that  hole  of  a 
place?"  assured  Roy.  "I'm  not  that  kind;  you'll  find 
nothing  stingy  about  me." 

"I'm  going  to  test  you  first,  Roy,"  I  said.  "You  must 
prove  your  sincerity.  I  have  a  weakness  for  nice  things 
— I  have  a  hunger,  a  passion  for  jewels,  and  I  am  envious 
of  Betty's. 

"What,  of  those?"  he  replied.  "They're  only  cheap 
baubles,  and  you  shall  have  twice  as  many  and  twice  as 


IN  THE  CURRENT  161 

valuable.  But  first  of  all,  there's  Sylvie's  bill.  There's 
no  use  trying  further  to  keep  under  cover — it's  to  be  open 
dealing  and  truth  between  us  now,  Frizzie.  I  confess  I 
inspired  Camilla  to  take  you  to  Sylvie." 

"Yes,  Roy,  and  I  suppose  Andrews  inspired  Betty  to 
the  same  purpose." 

"The  dog!"  said  Roy.  "He  took  up  with  her,  did  he! 
He  took  up  with  her — took  up  with  her  to  play  foul  by 
me  and  to  play  foul  by  you,  Frizzie.  I'll  teach  him. 
The  dog!" 

"You  mustn't  be  so  severe,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"Why  shouldn't  I,"  he  replied,  "when  the  friend  you 
trust  turns  around  and  tries  to  stick  a  knife  in  your 
back?  But  you  didn't  go  with  her,  did  you?"  he  asked 
anxiously. 

"No,  Roy." 

"That's  what  I  might  expect  of  a  girl  like  you — I  tell 
you,  Frizzie,  you're  a  winner  with  me,  a  clean  winner." 

"Betty  found  out  I  had  gone  to  Sylvie.  She  chided 
me  with  it  in  that  awful  scene  this  afternoon." 

"Oh,  you  can't  keep  anything  secret  when  you  mix 
up  with  girls  like  Camilla  and  Betty,"  said  Roy.  "I 
suppose  some  friend  of  Camilla's  or  of  Betty's  saw  you 
together.  Sylvie  never  would  utter  a  word — but  what's 
the  difference?  We're  on  another  course  now,  and  it's 
all  clear  sailing  ahead." 

"It  is  clear  sailing  ahead,  Roy,"  I  said  in  a  voice  lifted 
in  elation.  "There's  only  one  thing  I  wish  to  do  now." 

"What's  that?"  he  asked  eagerly. 

"Return  to  the  hotel  and  write  to  Winnie  Caine  telling 
her  never  to  interfere  with  me  again." 

"I  second  you  in  that,  Frizzie,"  assented  Roy.  "Get 
rid  of  all  of  them ;  wipe  the  slate  clean." 

"Yes,  yes,  Roy,"  I  said,  and  left  him  hurriedly.     I 


1 62  IN  THE  CURRENT 

ran  along  the  corridor  to  my  room,  and  hid  my  face  in 
the  pillow.  I  was  afraid  to  look  in  the  mirror — I  dreaded 
the  sense  of  humiliation  I  should  see  imprinted  there. 
I  never  had  thought  I  could  be  so  bold.  I  was  amazed, 
horrified  at  myself.  Yet,  having  started,  I  was  determined 
to  go  on.  So  I  arose  and  turned  the  leaves  of  the  tele- 
phone directory  until  I  came  to  the  name  of  Prince  An- 
drews. I  called  him  up,  and  arranged  to  meet  him  within 
twenty  minutes. 

I  met  him  in  a  Broadway  candy  shop,  where  they  serve 
ice  cream  sodas  and  hot  chocolate  at  a  marble  counter 
or  at  tables  in  the  rear.  We  went  to  a  quiet  table;  a 
girl  with  a  step-ladder  pompadour  brought  us  strawberry 
sodas,  and  then  I  dealt  with  Andrews  as  I  had  dealt  with 
Roy.  I  prided  myself  on  the  ease  with  which  I  did  it. 
I  should  have  been  ashamed,  still  neither  Andrews  nor 
Roy  deserved  consideration.  I  could  see  the  malicious 
gleam  grow  in  Andrews'  eyes.  I  could  see  the  gloating 
and  the  pride  in  the  victory  he  thought  to  be  his.  I  did 
not  stop  for  truth,  or  anything;  and  really  I  was  elated 
over  the  imposing  structure  of  falsehood  I  raised.  Why 
quibble  over  a  slight  question  of  veracity  with  such  a 
man  as  Andrews?  I  tried  to  fix  myself  like  Betty  or 
Camilla,  or  others  I  had  seen ;  with  my  elbows  on  the 
table  and  my  chin  caught  against  the  backs  of  my  partly- 
closed  hands.  I  gave  a  tilt  to  my  hat,  and  assuming  a 
perfectly  reckless  expression,  delivered  my  story  with 
gullible  tongue.  Part  of  my  crime  herewith  is  set  forth : 

"Oh,  Prince,  Prince,  I've  seen  the  last  of  Roy  and  I  am 
yours  because  I  recognized  from  the  first  it  was  to  be.  I 
dismissed  Roy ;  I  sent  him  away  with  the  order  never  to 
come  near  me  again.  And  he  won't.  I  hurt  his  vanity. 
I  told  him  he  was  too  much  of  a  kid,  and  that's  just  what 
he  is.  Prince." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  163 

"You  want  a  stable  person  like  me,  Frizzle,"  said 
Andrews,  and  the  malicious  self-satisfaction  showed  in 
every  line  and  wrinkle  in  his  face.  As  if  under  any  cir- 
cumstances I  ever  could  care  for  such  a  man !  Dishonesty 
was  stamped  all  over  Andrews,  but  over  that  was  a 
veneer  of  what  was  called  "good  breeding."  It  took  only 
a  little  scratching  to  find  the  scoundrel  in  Andrews,  and 
I  uncovered  him  with  a  will  that  day.  I  talked  to  him 
far  more  freely  than  I  had  talked  to  Roy,  because  he  was 
so  unimaginative  he  always  was  hinting  at  his  sense  of 
humor.  So  I  went  on : 

"I  never  cared  for  Roy,  and  I  never  will.  I've  been 
engaged  in  a  magnificent  plot.  I've  been  trying  my  wits 
against  Roy  and  Betty  and  Camilla  and  yourself,  Prince. 
I  played  the  innocent  kid  when  you  brought  me  the 
roses;  when  you  sent  Betty  to  run  me  into  debt  for 
clothes  so  that  you  might  extricate  me ;  I  played  the  same 
game  when  Betty  wished  me  to  share  that  apartment  with 
her.  Oh,  you  are  the  lot  of  simpletons,  Prince !  Instead 
of  finding  myself  wound  around  your  fingers,  I  have  you 
all  wound  on  my  little  finger." 

"You've  made  us  look  foolish,  all  right,  Frizzie,"  ad- 
mitted Andrews. 

"That's  what  I  have,  Prince,  and  now  it's  up  to  you 
to  make  good.  You've  played  the  game  and  lost,  and 
I'm  going  to  make  you  a  present  of  the  stakes.  What 
say  you?  Together  we  shall  sing  and  dance."  I  could 
not  restrain  the  impulse  to  become  extravagant — he  was! 
so  easy  a  victim !  "I  shall  be  a  princess  and  you  shall 
be  my  prince,  Prince.  You  shall  live  out  your  name — 
a  Prince  indeed  you'll  be !" 

"I  wouldn't  object  much  to  that,"  said  Andrews,  "but 
titles  are  barred  in  this  country." 

I  folded  my  wings  and  dropped  my  feet  on  solid  earth. 


1 64  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Now,  Prince,  I'll  tell  you — these  are  the  conditions :  A 
home  there  must  be — a  home  even  as  good  or  better  than 
Camilla's  or  Betty's.  Oh,  Prince,  before  you  get  through 
with  me,  you'll  think  I'm  frightfully  expensive — and 
jewels  must  come  first!  Are  you  frightened?  No? 
You're  right  in  thinking  that — far  better  to  have  it  over 
and  done  with  than  trailing  along  indefinitely.  Then, 
jewels  it  is!  One  ring,  one  brooch,  two  rings,  two 
brooches — no,  I  won't  be  hard,  I'll  leave  that  to  you, 
Prince.  Only,  the  jewels  first  as  an  evidence  of  good 
faith." 

The  fellow  dared  to  slip  his  hand  over  mine.  I  shud- 
dered, but  I  bore  it. 

"You  shall  have  anything  your  charming  little  heart 
desires,"  he  said. 

"Thank  you;  thank  you,  Prince,"  I  said  rising,  for  I 
could  not  endure  his  hand  on  mine  a  moment  longer. 
"I'll  give  you  two  days  to  prove  it." 

I  left  him  hurriedly  as  I  had  left  Roy.  The  two  inter- 
views and  the  two  partings  had  been  substantially  alike, 
the  only  difference  being  temperamental  between  Roy 
and  Andrews.  I  ran  along  the  corridor  again  to  my 
room ;  again  I  hid  my  face  in  the  pillow.  But  only  for  a 
moment.  The  ridiculous  side  of  the  situation  struck  me, 
and  I  sat  up  on  the  side  of  the  bed  and  laughed  until  the 
tears  came.  Honestly  I  did,  and  thus  I  saw  that  comedy 
and  tragedy  are  twin  sisters. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

THE  following  afternoon  two  packages  were  delivered 
by  special  messengers,  one  from  Roy  and  one  from  An- 
drews. I  lifted  the  lids  and  two  cards  fell  out  I  let  them 
lie  on  the  floor,  and  placed  the  boxes  with  their  glistening 
contents  side  by  side  on  the  table. 

It  would  be  false  of  me  to  say  I  was  not  a  little  im- 
pressed. Oh,  girls,  girls,  have  we  not  a  hard  fight  against 
our  vanities !  I  could  feel  my  heart  quickening  up,  just 
because  there  was  enough  of  the  barbaric  in  me  to  covet 
the  lot.  I  was  not  angelic,  far  from  it.  I  took  all  the 
rings,  slipped  them  on  my  fingers,  and  held  up  my  hands 
and  examined  the  effect  from  every  possible  angle.  It 
was  beautiful !  And  no  doubt  of  it :  My  hands  were  made 
for  rings!  My  slender,  tapering  fingers  did  not  flaunt 
them  forth  like  the  stubby  fingers  of  Betty;  they  were 
more  refined  to  the  use  than  the  bloodless  fingers  of 
Camilla.  I  could  see  that  plainly,  as  I  gazed  upon  my 
gem-laden  fingers  in  the  light  of  the  window;  and  as  I 
gazed  it  was  not  so  easy  for  me  to  resist.  Oh,  Betty  and 
Camilla!  As  I  stood  there  in  my  uncertainty  I  came  to 
know  you  better.  Whatever  the  cause,  a  wave  of  sym- 
pathy swept  us  three  together,  and  deep  down  in  my 
heart  a  voice  called  that  you  were  my  sisters.  If  only 
heaven  drew  near  and  dazzled  like  that ! 

I  had  shaken  off  temptation  before  Winnie  was  an- 
nounced over  the  telephone.  I  requested  that  she  come 
upstairs  to  me,  and  left  the  plush-covered  boxes  open  on 

165 


1 66  IN  THE  CURRENT 

the  dressing-table.  She  saw  the  jewels  the  moment  I 
opened  the  door,  and  her  smile  faded.  She  stepped  over, 
glanced  at  the  cards,  which  I  had  picked  up,  and  turned 
on  me. 

"So  this  is  the  price  ?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  that  is  the  price,  Winnie,"  I  replied. 

"And  you're  not  coming  home  with  me?" 

"Of  course  I  am,  Winnie." 

"With  these?" 

"Oh,  no." 

"What  are  you  coming  with,  then?" 

"I  can't  tell  you  now,  Winnie,  but  I  will  tell  you  when 
I  come." 

"I  don't  know  that  I  ever  want  you  to  put  a  foot  inside 
our  door,"  she  said,  her  voice  filled  with  bitter  scorn. 
"But  Six  Pond  Street  is  the  number,  and  drop  in  some- 
time when  you  want  to  tell  me  about  it — only  don't  come 
around  with  any  of  these  things  on." 

"I  will  tell  you  now,  Winnie,"  I  said.  "Let  me  ex- 
plain." 

She  went  to  the  door.  "Explain !  I  don't  care  to  hear 
any  explanation.  You're  out  for  yourself.  Make  the 
best  of  it.  And  if  that's  the  price,  you're  selling  your- 
self cheap.  Make  them  go  deeper.  Stick  them  both  for 
a  diamond  dog-collar  and  a  six-cylinder  automobile.  Do 
it  quick,  too,  for  now's  your  only  chance.  It  won't  come 
so  easy  when  the  bloom  is  off  your  cheek." 

She  pulled  the  door  firmly  behind  her.  I  made  a  note 
of  her  address,  and  went  uptown  to  Mme.  Sylvie's.  I 
paid  her  in  full  out  of  my  little  store,  and  had  the  frock 
and  cloak  sent  after  me  to  the  hotel.  I  looked  over  the 
theatrical  advertisements  in  a  newspaper,  telephoned  to 
Roy,  and  told  him  I  wished  to  go  to  the  first  performance 
that  night  of  "A  Warrior  Bold."  He  hesitated  until 


IN  THE  CURRENT  167 

I  told  him  bluntly  I  had  received  garments  for  evening 
wear,  then  he  became  willing  and  enthusiastic.  I  tele- 
phoned to  Andrews  and  told  him  also  I  wished  to  see  "A 
Warrior  Bold."  When  Andrews  telephoned  an  hour  and 
a  half  later  that  he  had  obtained  tickets  I  insisted  I  could 
not  stir  from  my  room  because  of  a  headache. 

Roy  called  for  me  with  a  carriage.  I  had  been  ar- 
rayed an  hour,  and  I  went  down  to  meet  him  possessed 
of  a  feeling  of  intense  gratification.  I  felt  my  power. 
I  beamed  upon  Roy.  I  played  with  him  as  a  cat  with  a 
mouse.  He  was  in  ecstasy  over  my  appearance.  He 
avowed  I  was  more  than  pretty.  I  held  my  head  high ; 
I  accepted  his  adoration  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"The  rings  and  the  bracelet  and  the  brooch  and  the 
watch  are  beautiful,  Roy,"  I  said,  "but  you  understand 
why  I  do  not  wish  to  wear  a  single  one  of  them  to- 
night?" 

"I  understand,  and  you  are  perfect  in  everything,"  he 
responded.  "There  are  so  few  women  of  taste  it  is  a 
delight  to  be  with  you,  Frizzie.  You  look  infinitely 
sweeter  without  those  disfiguring  things." 

"You  will  let  me  keep  them,  though,  Roy,  to  gratify 
the  barbarian  in  me?" 

"That's  not  fair,  Frizzie..  I've  put  that  little  gift  out 
of  my  mind,  and  never  want  to  speak  or  think  of  it 
again.  Let  us  talk  about  something  more  interesting." 

"Let  us  talk,"  I  said  taking  him  up,  "about  the  restaur- 
ants we  have  frequented  in  the  evenings,  and  which  you 
deceived  me  were  the  very  best." 

"Please,  let  up  on  a  fellow,  Frizzie,"  he  pleaded,  evi- 
dently hurt. 

"We  must  uncover  every  truth  before  we  go  further, 
Roy,"  I  said.  "It  wasn't  my  'wit  and  beauty'  altogether, 
now  was  it?  Wit  and  beauty  count  for  little  until  they 


1 68  IN  THE  CURRENT 

are  in  the  proper  setting — is  that  what  I  am  to  suppose? 
The  frame  is  of  more  importance  than  the  picture;  the 
woman  in  New  York  is  not  to  be  judged  by  her  face,  but 
by  her  clothes — is  that  it,  Roy?" 

"Oh,  I  know  I'm  a  cad,  Frizzie,  but  it  isn't  all  as  bad 
as  you  think.  It  looks  blacker  against  me  because  you've 
found  me  out.  Oh,  I  tell  you  there  are  other  things  you'll 
find  out.  You've  been  thinking,  perhaps,  I'm  stronger 
than  other  men.  Well,  now  that  you've  torn  so  much 
of  the  mask  off  me,  I'll  tell  you  I'm  weaker  than  other 
men.  I'm  weaker  than  Norman.  I'm  as  weak  as  the 
world  around  me ;  I'm  puny,  and  mean,  and  cramped  just 
like  the  life  I  lead.  But  I'll  say  this,  Frizzie :  If  Norman 
and  I  were  to  change  places,  he  would  be  weak  and  I 
would  be  strong.  Don't  be  too  hard  on  me;  you  can't 
imagine  what  it  means  to  fight  temptation  every  day  and 
every  hour." 

"I  don't  agree  with  what  you  say  about  Norman,"  I 
said. 

"You  think  I'm  the  stronger,  Frizzie?  Then  you  do 
still  hold  a  little  faith  in  me?  Oh,  that's  fine;  that's 
bully !  I  was  afraid  you  might  be  thinking  of  returning 
to  Covey  because  of  all  I've  said  and  done." 

The  carriage  drew  up  outside  the  theatre.  "Here  we 
are,  Roy,"  I  said  excitedly.  "Don't  spoil  this  evening  for 
me.  Come,  come,  I  promise  you  I  never  will  go  near 
Covey  again.  Let's  live  to-night,  Roy!"  I  pressed  his 
hand  wilfully  as  I  stepped  out,  and  I  was  surprised  as  I 
looked  at  him  to  see  red  rise  in  his  cheeks.  We  moved 
in  with  a  stream  of  laughing,  animated  men  and  women, 
and  the  spirit  of  light  and  life  thrilled  me.  We  went  up 
a  narrow  stairs  to  a  balcony  box.  The  asbestos  fire- 
curtain  had  not  been  raised.  A  few  musicians  were 


IN  THE  CURRENT  169 

yawning  in  the  orchestra  pit,  and  Roy  directed  my  atten- 
tion to  the  audience  sweeping  down  the  aisles. 

"Look  there,  Frizzie,"  said  Roy.  "You  see  that  tall, 
divine-looking  creature  gliding  down  the  center  aisle. 
Can't  you  see! — the  one  with  that  man-mountain  in  the 
background.  That's  the  one.  Now  watch.  They'll  take 
the  two  aisle  seats  to  the  right  in  the  front  row.  They're 
regular  first-nighters ;  the  same  seats  always  are  reserved 
for  them." 

"She's  magnificent,"  I  said  in  a  subdued  tone. 

"Of  course,  she's  magnificent,"  replied  Roy.  "See,  there 
they  go  into  the  seats  as  I  said  they  would.  That  mag- 
nificent creature  gets  all  her  frocks  from  Paris.  That 
pearl  necklace  she's  wearing  cost  seventy-five  thousand 
dollars  if  it  cost  a  cent.  She  probably  has  about  fifteen 
thousand  dollars  on  her  fingers  and  another  fifteen  thou- 
sand dollars  in  her  hair." 

"I  feel  very  small,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  humbug,  the  woman's  got  no  imagination!"  he 
responded.  "Look  at  the  size  of  the  hand  that  man-moun- 
tain has  dropped  over  the  arm  of  his  chair.  It  would 
make  a  decent-sized  ham.  Look  at  the  diamonds  he's 
wearing.  When  diamonds  are  thrown  around  carelessly 
like  that  you  may  depend  there's  grossness  goes  with 
them." 

"How  could  she  ever  marry  him,  Roy?"  I  asked. 

"Marry  him !"  repeated  Roy,  and  laughed. 

"Do  tell  me  what  it  is,  Roy,"  I  said,  "or  I  shall  be 
thinking  dreadful  things." 

"You  can't  think  things  too  dreadful  to  fit  that  kind 
of  living  in  New  York,"  he  replied. 

"She's  not  his  wife,  then?"  I  persisted. 

"I  won't  say  she's  not,"  responded  Roy,  "and  I  will  say 
I  have  some  sympathy  for  her.  She  married  an  English 


170  IN  THE  CURRENT 

army  officer — one  of  those  officers  one  remove  from  a 
title.  She  married  for  love;  the  officer  married  for 
money,  and  when  he  found  she  had  only  her  beauty  he 
deserted  her." 

"He  didn't  love  her !"  I  exclaimed,  genuinely  shocked. 

"Love  her !"  echoed  Roy.  "All  the  love  she's  ever 
known  has  come  from  that  roly-poly  at  her  side.  He  was 
in  Paris  when  it  happened,  and  he  heard  she  was  almost 
penniless,  and  sent  her  back  to  her  parents.  There's  a 
big  heart  in  him — when  you  want  a  big  heart  you're  safe 
in  picking  the  man  who  wears  diamonds  for  buttons  on 
his  waistcoat.  But  that's  aside  from  the  case — naturally 
the  man-mountain  looked  her  up  when  he  returned  from 
abroad,  naturally  she  was  grateful,  and,  without  going 
any  further,  there  they  are  before  you." 

"But  that  doesn't  happen  often — to  be  deserted  in 
Europe  on  the  honeymoon?"  I  asked,  fearing  for  the 
safety  of  my  castle  in  the  air. 

"No,  not  often,"  replied  Roy  slowly,  "because  un- 
fortunately the  majority  of  our  girls  who  marry 
foreigners  have  money." 

"Are  there  any  others,  Roy,  who  have  had  such  a 
dreadful  experience  ?" 

"She  doesn't  think  it  dreadful,"  answered  Roy.  "At 
least,  not  now.  You  haven't  got  a  focus  on  New  York 
yet.  You  see  that  sour-faced  woman  trotting  down  the 
aisle  with  the  round-shouldered  youth  at  her  heels  ?  Look 
there!  The  woman — and  the  man  following  her  obedi- 
ently like  a  trained  poodle!" 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see,  the  old  woman  and  the  young  man 
— like  mother  and  son!" 

"Like  husband  and  wife,"  said  Roy. 

"How  could  that  be?"  I  asked  in  astonishment. 


IN  THE   CURRENT  171 

"Easy  enough.  Divorce,"  answered  Roy.  "He's  her 
fourth  husband." 

"Fourth!"  I  repeated  incredulously. 

"No.  i  was  divorced,  No.  2  was  divorced,  No.  3  was 
divorced,"  said  Roy,  "and  for  all  I  know  there  may  be 
a  divorce  in  pickle  for  No.  4.  But  No.  4 — that's  the 
poodle — doesn't  care.  Before  Mrs.  Somebody- Somebody- 
Somebody  promised  to  honor  and  obey  him  she  settled 
ten  thousand  dollars  a  year  for  life  on  him.  If  she  took 
a  fancy  for  a  No.  5  that  would  provide  for  the  discarded 
No.  4  until  he'd  bargained  his  youth  to  another  of  New 
York's  rich  old  women." 

"What  has  become  of  the  husbands  that  have  gone?" 
I  asked. 

"Married  again,"  replied  Roy.  "Mismated  couples 
here  in  New  York  are  so  impatient  they  can  hardly 
wait  for  divorce  to  rush  into  wedlock  again." 

"What  do  the  children  do?"  I  asked,  unable  to  re- 
strain my  curiosity. 

"Children?  Ho,  ho!"  said  Roy  derisively.  "If  I  were 
to  meet  one  of  those  women  of  millions  wheeling  a  baby 
carriage  in  Fifth  Avenue  I'd  call  a  policeman.  I'd  be 
certain  she'd  gone  into  the  East  Side,  or  some  other 
normally  populous  part  of  the  city,  and  turned  kidnap- 
per." 

"It  shocks  me  to  hear  you  talk  so  lightly,  Roy,"  I  said 
in  real  sincerity. 

"It  shocks  me,"  he  replied,  "but  you  couldn't  imagine 
how  that  woman  came  to  marry  No.  I  ?  Her  father 
was  a  faro  dealer  out  West.  He  straightened  up  and 
went  prospecting.  He  struck  silver,  died  a  United  States 
senator,  and  left  his  daughter  fifteen  or  twenty  millions. 
She  had  more  suitors  than  she  could  count.  She  sent  for 
the  whole  pack  of  would-be  capitalists.  She  wrote  their 


172  IN  THE  CURRENT 

names  on  slips  of  paper,  and  dropped  the  slips  into  an 
Egyptian  jar.  'Boys/  she  said,  'the  law  prevents  me 
marrying  all  of  you — the  one  whose  name  I  draw  is  the 
one.'  She  reached  into  the  jar,  took  out  a  slip,  read  the 
name,  and  that  same  afternoon  eloped  with  the  winner 
of  the  lottery.  You  see,  she  was  something  of  a  gambler 
like  her  father." 

"They  really  eloped?"  I  gasped. 
"Certainly,"  responded  Roy.    "And  she  laughs  to-day 
and  tells  No.  4  it  was  the  romantic  prank  of  an  unso- 
phisticated girl." 

"This  is  what  is  called  life  in  New  York,  Roy?" 
"It's  one  side  of  New  York  life,"  replied  Roy.  "Only 
one — the  side  you  usually  find  at  a  New  York  first-night. 
Look  there,  Frizzie!  In  the  center  aisle  again — enter 
the  gay  broker  brigade !  And  there's  the  banker  brigade 
escorting  the  adventuring-actress  brigade — oh,  they're 
coming  so  fast  now  I  can't  distinguish  between  them  for 
you.  But  I'll  run  over  a  few — there's  the  wigmaker 
brigade,  the  dressmaker  brigade,  the  millinery  brigade, 
the  shirtmaker,  tailor,  gambling-house  keeper,  restaurant- 
keeper,  wine  agent,  song-writer,  divorce-lawyer  and 
grafting-politician  brigades.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  the  New 
York  first-night  audience  is  a  social  paradise." 

"It  is  all  so  different  from  what  I  had  imagined,  Roy." 
"I  know  it,"  he  replied.  "The  honest  shopkeepers  and 
their  wives  come  here  from  Chicago  and  St.  Louis  and 
Kansas  City  once  a  year,  and  they  go  to  a  first-night  and 
pick  out  this  one  as  a  Vanderbilt  and  that  one  as  an 
Astor,  and  think  they're  having  a  giddy  time.  If  there's 
any  culture  at  a  New  York  first-night  it's  never  noticed 
in  a  back  seat.  .  .  .  But  there  goes  the  curtain.  Now 
watch :  There'll  be  a  blizzard  and  icicles  for  two  acts 
and  then  in  the  last  act  June  roses." 


IN  THE   CURRENT  173 

Roy  was  right.  For  two  acts  trouble  grew.  For  two 
acts  the  Fates  visited  distraction  upon  the  hero  and  the 
heroine.  For  two  acts  these  two  were  chilled  by  cruel 
winter — the  north  wind  howled,  the  snow  whirled  in 
fury,  the  frost  bit  to  the  marrow,  all  Nature  was  unkind ! 
Then,  presto !  the  birth  of  spring,  the  buds  breaking  into 
leaf  on  the  trees  and  in  the  hedgerows,  the  sparrows  twit- 
tering in  the  eaves,  the  robin  redbreast  hopping  on  vel- 
vety lawn,  the  snowdrop  peeping,  the  daffodil  lifting  its 
golden  head !  Again,  presto !  and  summer  is  here — sum- 
mer, with  the  droning  bees  flitting  from  petal  to  petal 
sipping  the  nectar  up;  summer,  with  the  cool  streams 
rippling  in  their  rocky  beds,  with  the  hills  rearing  their 
wooded  crests  to  the  azure  sky,  with  the  lowing  kine 
browsing  in  the  verdant  valleys,  with  the  sun  going  down 
like  a  ball  of  fire  in  the  west,  with  the  moon  rising  like 
silver  in  the  east,  with  the  fireflies  lighting  their  myriad 
lamps  under  the  shadowy  elms ;  summer,  with  the  shades 
of  night  falling,  and,  at  last,  the  hero  and  the  heroine 
meeting  at  the  rustic  stile  to  pledge  eternal  love  while 
the  world  stands  still  to  listen! 

So  it  ran,  and  I  sat  there  new  to  it  all  and  was  deeply 
impressed.  I  joined  in  the  laughter  and  the  applause, 
and,  upon  my  word,  I  caught  several  tears  on  my  cheeks 
on  the  end  of  a  timid  finger.  The  author  came  out,  and 
there  were  cries  of  "Speech,  Speech."  I  pitied  the  poor 
man.  He  said:  "I  thank  you  for  your  splendid  recep- 
tion in  behalf  of  the  company  and  myself.  I  thank  you, 
I  thank  you,  I  thank  you ;  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart, 
I  thank  you."  Between  the  acts  the  orchestra  was  almost 
drowned  by  the  babble  of  voices.  Men  went  up  and  down 
the  aisles.  Small  boys  in  tight  uniforms  served  water 
to  the  women.  Roy  leaned  forward  in  his  chair  and 
bowed  and  smiled  to  this  one  and  that  one.  He  leaned 


174  IN  THE  CURRENT 

back  and  told  me  that  Prince  Andrews  and  Betty  Collins 
were  in  seats  almost  directly  below  us.  Half  a  dozen 
men  came  up  the  narrow  stairs,  and  were  introduced  by 
Roy,  and  talked  about  the  play  and  the  "hit"  it  was. 
Women  fixed  me  through  opera  glasses,  and  I  bore  their 
scrutiny  without  wavering.  With  a  final  burst  of  ap- 
plause the  performance  came  to  an  end.  I  went  down 
the  stairs  ahead  of  Roy,  and  in  the  crush  at  the  bottom 
I  almost  collided  with  Betty.  Andrews  saw  me  and 
looked  as  if  thunderstruck.  Betty  turned  to  him. 

"What  did  I  tell  you,  Prince?"  she  said  significantly. 
"Maybe  you'll  believe  what  I  tell  you  now." 

"Hello,  Andrews,"  said  Roy,  without  a  sign  of  the 
enmity  he  felt.  "Are  you  not  going  to  speak  to  a  fel- 
low?" 

"Come  on,  Prince,"  said  Betty  imperatively.  "You 
know  who  are  your  friends,  all  right." 

She  deliberately  pressed  Andrews  before  her,  and  he 
seemed  not  unwilling  to  go. 

"What's  the  matter  with  you,  Betty?"  asked  Roy. 
"How  is  it  you're  not  on  to-night  with  'The  Golden  Bells'  ? 
Playing  hookey  again,  I  suppose?" 

She  looked  back  for  a  moment.  "I'm  not  playing 
hookey,  thank  you,"  she  replied  tartly.  "I've  got  your 
angel  child  that's  with  you  to  thank  for  seeing  the  show. 
Miss  Angel  Face  set  Camilla  on  me,  and  that's  why  I'm 
here.  Camilla  had  the  pull,  and  I'm  out  of  'The  Golden 
Bells' — if  the  news  will  do  you  any  good.  .  .  .  Come 
on,  Prince;  this  is  no  place  for  you  and  me." 

Roy  and  I  dismissed  Betty  and  Andrews  from  our 
thoughts.  We  drove  to  a  restaurant  in  Broadway  near 
Forty-second  street,  and  I  looked  around  upon  a  mid- 
night picture  of  gay  New  York.  What  was  the  picture  ? 
In  its  heavy  lines,  good  clothes,  good  food,  good  wine 


IN  THE  CURRENT  175 

and  plenty  of  it !  There  was  much  laughter — and  it  was 
insincere.  There  was  a  constant  babble  of  voices — and 
the  sound  meant  nothing.  Men  and  women  alike  lolled 
with  elbows  on  tables.  Against  the  gold  ceiling  pressed 
a  haze  of  cigarette  smoke.  Screened  by  a  fence  of  palms 
an  orchestra  sent  out  the  alluring  strains  of  "Has  Any- 
body Here  Seen  Kelly?" 

At  the  table  next  to  ours  a  youth  poured  wine  until  a 
glass  overflowed  and  a  stream  started  across  the  table- 
cloth and  trickled  to  the  floor.  At  another  table  a  man 
well  on  to  middle-life  tried  to  hang  rings  of  smoke  on  the 
tip  of  the  tilted  nose  of  a  girl  of  seventeen  or  eighteen. 
At  another  table  a  bulgy-eyed,  red-faced,  thick-necked, 
bald-headed  man  slipped  a  ring  from  a  young  woman 
with  her  hair  so  blonde  that  it  almost  shrieked,  and  hold- 
ing it  up  on  the  end  of  a  fat,  chubby  little  finger,  insipidly 
declared,  "Now  we're  married !"  At  still  another  table  a 
languid  beauty  calmly  opened  her  gold  vanity  box  and 
powdered  her  nose. 

"There's  a  newcomer  in  the  corner,"  said  Roy.  "She 
won't  be  so  shrinking  and  demure  in  a  month." 

"Perhaps  I  look  shrinking  and  demure,  Roy,"  I  sug- 
gested. 

"I  wish  you  would  not  persist  in  misunderstanding 
me,  Frizzie,"  he  replied  with  some  impatience.  "You 
know  when  I  spoke  I  never  thought  of  you,  and  could 
not  think  of  you  in  that  connection." 

"I  did  not  mean  to  offend  you,  Roy,"  I  said.  "It  was 
only  that  I  was  a  little  curious." 

"Just  sounding  me,  that's  all,  isn't  it?"  retorted  Roy 
with  returning  good-nature. 

"Yes,  I  confess  that's  it." 

"I  like  you  because  you  are  so  contrary,  Frizzie,"  said 
Roy,  leaning  far  across  the  table.  "Have  you  guessed 


176  IN  THE  CURRENT 

there  are  a  score  of  men  I  know  here  that  are  only  wait- 
ing for  a  nod  from  me  to  come  over  and  meet  you  ?  But 
I  won't  nod  to  them ;  I'm  going  to  be  selfish  and  keep 
you  all  to  myself.  I  won't  let  any  of  them  come  over 
here  to  contaminate  you  or  me — this  is  our  night,  Frizzie. 
That's  what  it  is !  and  are  you  going  to  keep  me  to  that 
pledge  against  one  little  drop  ?  I'll  keep  it  if  you  say  so — 
but  to-night's  our  night,  Frizzie." 

"Have  you  kept  your  pledge,  Roy  ?"  I  asked. 
"No,  I  haven't,"  he  answered  boldly,  "and  I  was  just 
about  to  tell  you  so.  I  had  one  drink  to-day,  one  yesterday 
and  one  the  day  before  yesterday.    That's  all,  Frizzie ;  and 
now  you  and  I  will  have  one  little  drop  and  then  we'll 
start  off  even  on  the  prohibition  game.    We'll  only  split  a 
pint  of  Red  Seal ;  and  we'll  turn  down  our  glasses  when 
they're  empty  and  swear  never  to  touch  liquor  again." 
"How  many  times  have  you  promised,  Roy?"  I  asked. 
"Oh,  a  couple  of  score  of  times,  I  guess,"  he  replied, 
"but  I'm  in  dead  earnest  this  time,  and  you'll  find  out 
that  I  am." 

"Drink,  Roy,  drink,  if  you  desire  it,"  I  said,  "only  don't 
ask  me  to  drink  with  you." 

"You  mean  that,  Frizzie — it  is  our  night,  then !  Here, 
waiter !" 

The  smoke  grew  thicker;  the  babble  of  voices  grew 

louder ;  the  laughter  grew  more  insincere  and  hollow ;  the 

orchestra  played,  "I  Wonder  Who's  Kissing  Her  Now." 

"Roy,"  I  said,  "you  have  emptied  your  glass  several 

times,  and  you  have  not  turned  it  down." 

"Neither  I  have,  but  why  should  I,  Frizzie?  Now, 
why  should  I  ?  We're  only  young  once,  and  when  we're 
young  let  us  enjoy  ourselves."  He  filled  up  the  glass 
again,  and  raised  it  to  me.  "Here's  to  you,  Frizzie,  and 
there's  not  another  girl  in  the  world  I'd  have  sitting  there 


IN  THE  CURRENT  177 

but  you.  This  is  the  last  time,  and  you  see  I  know  how 
to  take  care  of  myself.  I've  taken  care  of  you,  haven't 
I  ?  I've  kept  those  wasters  away,  haven't  I  ?  Of  course, 
I  have — they  daren't  come  over  here  till  I  give  the  sign, 
and  I  won't  give  the  sign!  They  may  go  to  the  devil 
for  all  I  care — they're  wasters  the  whole  lot  of  them. 
You  see  that  red-headed  fellow  over  there  trying  to  keep 
his  head  off  his  breast.  Well,  he's  only  twenty-five,  and 
you  see  what  he  is.  His  old  man  has  got  forty  or  fifty 
millions,  and  the  boy's  got  fifty  thousand  a  year  pin 
money  and  that  isn't  enough ;  he  borrows  from  his 
mother  and  never  pays  her  back.  That  same  fellow 
wanted  to  marry  my  sister  May,  but  you  bet,  father  sent 
him  out  of  the  house  on  the  double-quick;  and  May  had 
a  hand  in  it,  too.  May  agreed  with  father  there  wouldn't 
be  a  drunken  waster  in  our  family — and  they're  all 
wasters  that  want  to  come  over  to  this  table  and  break 
wine  with  you,  Frizzie!  But  I  won't  let  them;  I'll  keep 
the  ghouls  at  a  safe  distance !  No  one  will  harm  a  hair 
in  your  head,  Frizzie,  and  they  can  all  go  their  own  way 
and  we'll  go  ours.  That's  right — we'll  go  our  way,  Friz- 
zie. It's  just  you  and  me,  Frizzie;  just  you  and  me,  my 
little  charmer." 

Roy  reached  out  a  hand  toward  me,  and  I  drew  back. 

"Pardon  me,  Frizzie,  I  forgot,"  he  said.  "It's  the 
wine.  Isn't  wine  the  funny  thing  for  making  men  forget 
themselves !" 

Roy  nodded  his  head  in  seriousness  for  a  few  moments, 
then  his  flushed  face  broadened  in  a  smile  of  satisfaction. 

"I  knew  all  along  I  wasn't  mistaken  in  you,  Frizzie. 
You're  the  brick  I  always  thought  you  to  be.  You  won 
me  that  afternoon  on  the  knoll.  You  remember  that 
afternoon?  Wasn't  it  glorious  there,  dreaming,  the  two 
of  us.  You  were  wise  never  to  marry  that  stick  Clark. 


178  IN  THE  CURRENT 

You've  too  much  imagination  for  him,  Frizzie.  He'd 
weight  you  down  so  that  you  never  could  rise  to  reaching 
distance  of  a  cloud.  We'll  get  along  all  right,  and  you'll 
never  regret  what  you've  done.  I'll  stick  by  you,  and 
you'll  stick  by  me — I  tell  you  we're  a  pair  of  trumps,  we 
are,  Frizzie!  What  do  we  care  for  the  rotters  here? 
They're  old  players ;  they're  hardened — you  couldn't  crack 
the  shells  on  them  with  a  hammer.  No,  you  couldn't, 
but  with  you  and  me  it's  different,  Frizzie — we're  just 
learning  to  fly!  It's  great  to  find  a  girl  like  you  that 
has  never  tasted  liquor.  I  was  praying  you  wouldn't 
poison  your  breath  with  it  to-night,  and  you  didn't — 
oh,  the  good  sort  you  are!  I  admire  you  more  than  I 
can  tell,  Frizzie.  By  heaven!  if  it  wasn't  for  what  the 
mater  would  say,  do  you  know  what  I'd  do,  Frizzie? 
I'd  marry  you,  that's  what  I'd  do." 

"We  will  go,  Roy,"  I  said  firmly,  and  without  feeling 
the  slightest  emotion. 

"Go  where ?"  he  said.  "Back  to  that  hotel?  Not  much. 
You  heard  what  I  said,  Frizzie?  I  meant  that;  by  God, 
I  meant  it,  and  we'll  be  married  yet."  He  struck  the 
table  with  his  open  hand.  "I  meant  what  I  said,  Frizzie," 
he  repeated,  and  suddenly  he  threw  back  his  head  and 
laughed  loudly.  "We'll  get  married,  Frizzie,"  he  said. 
"In  the  sweet  by  and  by,  we'll  get  married." 

"You  must  take  me  back  to  the  hotel,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  if  you  want  it  that  way,  Frizzie,  I'm  agreeable. 
I  don't  forget  my  promise — two  days  it  was,  and  the 
two  days  are  up  to-morrow.  Hasten  to-morrow." 

We  drove  rapidly  through  streets  now  deserted  save 
for  an  occasional  belated  vehicle  like  our  own.  Roy 
alighted  before  me,  and  when  I  gave  him  my  hand  he 
held  it  fast.  On  the  sidewalk  he  attempted  to  draw  me 
to  him. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  179 

"Don't  you  think  I  deserve  a  kiss  by  this  time?"  he 
said  in  a  low,  determined  tone  as  I  resisted.  "Yes,  I  do. 
Kiss  me." 

But  I  pulled  myself  free,  and  fled  from  him. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

HARDLY  had  I  entered  my  room  than  the  telephone 
rang,  and,  as  I  anticipated,  it  was  Andrews.  I  was  pre- 
pared for  him,  for  just  such  a  conversation  was  part  of 
my  plot. 

"Oh,  Frizzie,  Frizzie,  I'm  almost  heartbroken,"  he 
lamented.  "I  thought  you  would  be  in  Rector's,  and  three 
times  I  have  left  Betty  fuming  at  the  table  to  telephone 
to  you.  I  suppose  it's  all  off  now,  and  you've  given  me 
so  much  the  worst  of  it,  you  know." 

"Not  at  all,  Prince,"  I  said  gaily.  "Can't  you  reason 
it  out?  I'm  piling  disappointment  upon  Roy  for  to- 
morrow. He  will  wake  up  to  find  the  little  bird  flown." 

"You  mean  that,  Frizzie?"  asked  Andrews,  as  if  tak- 
ing hope. 

"Certainly,  I  mean  it,"  I  said.  "You  saw  I  didn't  wear 
one  of  the  rings,  or  the  bracelet  or  the  brooch  or  the 
watch — and  I  must  thank  you  now  for  all  of  them, 
Prince.  They  are  beautiful,  beautiful ;  and  I  only  trust 
you  think  I  am  deserving  of  them." 

"Cheap  baubles!  You  just  wait,  Frizzie!  I'll  pay  you 
a  tribute  that  will  mean  something — when  we  know  each 
other  better." 

"You  could  not  guess  what  I  am  doing  now,  Prince? 
I  have  the  rings  on  my  fingers,  the  bracelet  on  my  wrist, 
the  brooch  at  my  throat,  and  the  watch  on,  too;  and  I 
am  admiring  them  all  in  the  mirror.  I'm  just  raving 
over  them,  Prince — just  raving." 

1 80 


IN  THE  CURRENT  181 

"That's  bully  of  you,  Frizzle,"  said  Andrews,  and  I 
could  mark  the  satisfaction  in  his  voice.  "That's  my  re- 
ward, and  it's  the  only  reward  I  ask." 

"To-morrow  I  will  tell  you  how  delighted  I  am, 
Prince.  Come  at  three  o'clock.  Roy  is  to  come  at  four, 
but  we  shall  be  safely  away  long  before  then." 

"Betty's  glowering  at  me  through  the  glass  panel  in 
the  door,  Frizzie.  I  must  hurry  or  she  may  put  her 
gloved  fist  through  it.  Good-by ;  I  will  be  there  on  the 
minute — before  three  o'clock,  long  before  it." 

I  took  out  the  plush-covered  boxes,  and  moved  them 
slowly  around  and  around  in  front  of  me  to  see  the  light 
play  on  them.  I  sat  down  on  the  side  of  the  bed,  and 
placed  the  boxes  on  my  knee.  I  gave  myself  to  a  solil- 
oquy although  I  often  had  heard  that  persons  who  solilo- 
quize are  likely  to  become  insane.  But  I  don't  believe 
that;  I  believe  soliloquy  is  the  highest  form  of  sanity. 
Still,  no  matter — I  sat  down  and  lectured  myself  in 
plain,  honest  terms. 

"What  if  you  were  not  pretty,  Miss  Peabody?"  I 
asked.  "What  if  you  were  thirty-nine  instead  of  nine- 
teen? Would  these  jewels  have  been  offered  to  you? 
Would  Winnie  have  been  interested  in  you?  Would  Ca- 
milla and  Betty  have  quarreled  about  you?  Would  Roy 
and  Prince  Andrews  have  made  fools  of  themselves  for 
you?  Would  you  have  been  put  in  the  way  of  making 
a  little  fool  of  yourself — if  you  were  thirty-nine?  What 
questions !  You  cannot  answer  one  of  them,  and  yet  the 
answers  seem  easy?  Oh,  you  say  that  every  such  prob- 
lem of  life  seems  easy  and  apparent  until  we  try  to  think 
into  it.  Well,  I  won't  press  you  further,  Miss  Peabody ; 
only  please  don't  let  those  questions  slip  your  mind. 
They  may  be  of  use  to  you  some  day,  even  though  you 
don't  understand  them  now." 


1 82  IN  THE  CURRENT 

I  rather  enjoyed  this  taking  to  task  of  myself,  and  I 
found  myself  employing  gestures,  modulating  my  voice, 
and  on  the  whole  acting  as  if  I  really  was  addressing 
somebody  in  the  flesh  before  me. 

"You  don't  think  Covey  is  such  a  terrible  place  now, 
do  you,  Miss  Peabody?  No,  no,  you  don't,  but  you 
never  shall  go  back  there — no,  never,  never,  never !  Well, 
we  won't  discuss  that  point,  except  to  say  I  like  to  see  you 
so  emphatic.  It's  a  splendid  thing  to  be  emphatic,  es- 
pecially when  you  know  what  you  are  talking  about. 
But  I  will  say  this  to  you,  Miss  Peabody:  You  don't 
feel  so  very,  very  hard  toward  your  father  at  present? 
No — aye,  I  thought  that.  You  are  beginning  to  see  now 
with  the  eyes  of  experience — with  the  eyes  of  the  ex- 
perienced young  person  who  sits  here  now  catechizing 
you.  And  you  are  thankful  for  the  self-reliance  your 
father's  example  instilled  in  you.  You  are  thankful  he 
did  not  humor  the  romance  in  you.  You  are  thankful 
for  his  sternness  and  for  his  coldness,  because  they  threw 
you  back  upon  yourself  and  gave  you  strength  for  every 
crisis.  You  could  love  your  father  now;  yes,  you  could 
love  him — you  could  love  him  because  his  resolution  gave 
you  resolution,  because  his  strength  to  dare  gave  you 
also  the  strength  to  dare !  After  all,  Frizzie,  are  you  not 
a  child  of  environment?  Of  course,  of  course,  you  are, 
and  you  have  not  run  away  from  your  father.  Now, 
have  you?  You  don't  think  so,  and  I  agree  with  you. 
Your  father  has  been  at  your  elbow  wherever  you  have 
gone,  and  everything  he  ever  has  done  has  acted  as  a 
guide  to  you.  So  at  last  you  see  that  when  you  ran 
away  from  Covey  to  gain  independence,  or  whatever 
other  thing  you  may  have  had  in  mind,  you  had  to  take 
Covey  with  you,  and  you  have  not  been  able  to  be  your- 
self alone. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  183 

"One  other  phase  of  this  interesting  case  of  yours,  Miss 
Peabody:  You  remember  when  you  were  riding  on  the 
train  to  New  York  you  vowed  to  yourself  you  would 
stand  alone,  and  that  no  one  in  all  the  big  city  would  be 
permitted  to  influence  your  life  ?  Yes,  you  remember ; 
and  now  in  this  moment  of  searching  of  the  heart  you 
confess  you  have  not  kept  your  vow.  You  need  not 
hang  your  head  at  the  confession ;  it  is  the  confession  we 
all  must  make.  You  could  not  stand  alone  any  more  than 
I.  You  have  repeated  the  vow  in  secret  every  night  and 
every  morning,  and  not  one  day  has  the  vow  been  kept. 
Ah,  you  dear,  silly  little  girl,  when  will  you  know  you 
cannot  achieve  the  impossible?  Winnie  has  influenced 
you;  Roy  and  Andrews,  Betty  and  Camilla  have  had 
their  influence  upon  you — again  you  are  a  child  of  en- 
vironment. But  hold  up  your  head!  You  have  done 
all  or  more  than  might  have  been  expected  of  you.  If 
you  have  been  influenced  you  have  not  been  controlled, 
and  your  destiny  remains  your  own." 

With  that  I  ceased  my  serio-comic  business.  I  took 
the  boxes  again  and  placed  them  on  the  dressing-table 
so  that  I  could  survey  their  contents  in  the  mass  with 
my  head  on  the  pillow.  I  turned  out  the  light  and  laid 
myself  down  and  watched  the  gleam  of  the  jewels  in  the 
moonlight  filtering  into  the  room.  How  long  I  watched 
I  know  not,  but  suddenly  the  scene  was  changed  and 
I  was  queen  on  a  throne. 

I  was  a  real  queen,  and  beside  me  on  the  throne  was 
Roy.  I  wore  a  crown — and  a  crown  was  on  the  head 
of  Roy  and  in  his  hand  was  a  golden  sceptre.  Robes  of 
ermine  fell  from  his  shoulders  and  from  mine.  Plumed 
knights  in  glistening  armor  and  ladies  in  cloth  of  gold 
prostrated  themselves  before  us.  Six  men  in  bright 
scarlet  blew  six  blasts  upon  trumpets,  and  the  whole  court, 


1 84  IN  THE  CURRENT 

as  in  one  voice,  shouted :  Long  live  the  King  and 
Queen! 

I  awoke  to  more  interesting  and  less  picturesque 
reality.  I  looked  out  and  the  sun  was  striking  hot  upon 
the  flat  roofs.  I  was  impatient  to  be  away,  but  it  was 
with  care  I  removed  the  tags  bearing  my  name  and 
wrapped  and  tied  up  the  jewels  almost  exactly  as  I  had 
received  them.  I  called  a  messenger  boy  by  telephone, 
and  awaited  him  in  the  hotel  office.  There  I  entrusted 
to  him  for  delivery  the  two  tiny,  innocent-looking  boxes 
— the  one  Andrews  had  sent  with  his  card  addressed  to 
Camilla,  the  one  Roy  had  sent  with  his  card  addressed 
to  Betty. 

It  was  in  a  spirit  of  glee  I  watched  the  boy  go.  I 
paid  my  bill,  turned  my  back  on  the  hotel,  and  headed 
for  Winnie's,  my  step  as  light  as  a  feather. 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

No.  6  POND  STREET  was  a  five-story  brick  struc- 
ture, with  its  front  disfigured  by  two  fire-escapes, 
their  landings  at  each  floor  made  hideous  by  col- 
lections of  bottles  and  tins,  and  bedclothes  spread 
out  to  air.  A  double  door,  with  dusty  frosted-glass 
panels,  opened  on  a  narrow  hall,  the  sides  faced  with  imi- 
tation marble  and  showing  two  rows  of  electric-bell  but- 
tons. I  made  out  the  name  "Caine"  on  a  scrap  of  paper, 
yellow  with  age  and  stuck  behind  a  cracked,  circular 
piece  of  wood  holding  the  electric  button  in  position.  I 
pressed  the  button  and  began  to  ascend  the  stairs.  I 
had  gone  up  three  flights  and  was  half-way  to  the  top  of 
a  fourth  when  I  saw  Winnie  leaning  on  the  railing  and 
quietly  watching  me. 

"Well,  here  I  am,  Winnie,"  I  said  briskly. 

"I  can  see  that,"  she  replied,  as  I  mounted  the  last 
few  steps.  "Come  right  in  and  make  yourself  at  home." 

I  took  no  notice  of  the  sarcastic  turn  which  meant  any- 
thing but  an  invitation,  but  followed  her  into  a  cramped 
parlor.  She  waited  for  me  to  pass  and  closed  and  locked 
the  door. 

"I  want  this  door  locked,"  she  said,  "because  I  want  to 
have  this  business  ended  without  anybody  interfering." 
I  glanced  at  a  door  which  led  back  into  the  flat.  "Never 
mind  that,"  she  went  on.  "Mother  and  Stella  won't  butt 
in  unless  I  call  them.  They  heard  the  bell  and  they  know 

185 


1 86  IN  THE  CURRENT 

it's  you  or  somebody  else  to  see  me.  Now  what  have 
you  got  to  say,  coming  here  like  this  ?" 

"You  are  thinking  of  the  jewels,  Winnie?" 

"No,  I  don't  care  for  them — I'm  thinking  of  what  they 
stand  for,  what  they  mean  between  you  and  me." 

"I  sent  the  jewels  back,"  I  said,  with  a  pride  I  could 
not  conceal. 

"You  sent  them  back?"  she  repeated,  with  skeptical 
emphasis.  "Tell  that  to  anybody  you  like,  but  not  to 
me." 

"I  did,  Winnie,  I  did.  I  sent  them  back,  but  not  to 
Roy  nor  to  Andrews." 

"Andrews  was  mixed  up  in  it  too,  was  he?" 

"You  know,  Andrews,  Winnie?" 

"Know  him?"  she  echoed  strangely.  "Yes,  I  happen 
to  know  him.  But  go  on,  tell  me  what  you  did,  where 
you  sent  them.  Tell  me  that  you're  not  human  like  the 
rest  of  us  girls,  and  I'll  drink  it  all  in." 

"You  mustn't  doubt  me,  Winnie,  because  it's  all  true 
— true,  every  word  of  it." 

"Yes,  I  know  it's  true,  but  are  you  going  to  let  me  hear 
the  wonderful  thing  that  happened  ?" 

"There  is  nothing  wonderful,"  I  asserted.  "I  simply 
determined  to  teach  Roy  and  Andrews  a  lesson,  and  I 
sent  the  jewels  to  two  girls  who  knew  them  and  who 
once  trusted  them.  It  may  have  been  silly,  but  it  was 
fun." 

She  started  forward,  caught  me  by  the  arm,  and 
dragged  me  close  to  the  window.  "How  am  I  to  know 
that  or  believe  it?"  she  asked,  gazing  intently  into  my 
eyes.  "Will  you  swear  this  minute  that's  the  truth?" 

"I  will  swear  it  if  you  wish  me  to,  Winnie,"  I  said,  and 
she  suddenly  released  my  arm. 

"Take  off  your  hat  and  count  yourself  one  of  the 


IN  THE  CURRENT  187 

family,"  she  said.  "Stop  here  as  long  as  you  have  a  mind 
to.  I  want  to  take  lessons  from  you.  We're  all  pikers 
compared  to  you." 

In  the  change  that  had  come  over  her  she  took  off  my 
hat  herself,  dropped  it  on  a  chair,  and  left  the  two  hat- 
pins sticking  straight  up  from  the  crown.  She  pressed 
me  down  on  an  old,  faded  couch  and  seated  herself  be- 
side me.  The  whole  room  was  old  and  faded.  A  di- 
lapidated curtain  covered  the  window.  On  the  walls  in 
black  and  fly-specked  gilt  frames  were  impossible  prints, 
all  of  alleged  romantic  nature.  A  gas  fixture  with  two 
jets  seemed  about  to  part  company  from  the  ceiling, 
from  the  perpendicular  stem  of  the  fixture  itself  was 
suspended  a  red  paper  ball.  There  was  a  mantelpiece 
without  a  suggestion  of  a  grate,  and  the  mantelpiece 
was  nicked  and  scraped;  and  on  it  stood  a  clock  bare 
of  hands  and  a  delph  Cupid  with  his  bow  arm  broken. 
On  a  small  round-table  beside  the  window  was  a  battered 
sewing-basket,  and  a  family  album  held  in  a  celluloid 
back. 

"I'm  glad  you  handed  that  dose  to  the  two  of  them," 
said  Winnie.  "You  don't  blame  me,  though,  for  feeling 
a  bit  sore.  It  looked  raw,  you'll  admit  that,  after  what 
had  happened." 

"I  understand  how  you  must  have  felt,  Winnie." 
"But  who  is  this  Andrews  fellow,  anyway?"  she  asked. 
"Why,  I  thought  you  said  you  knew  him,  Winnie?" 
"I  thought  myself  at  first  I  did,  but  one  meets  so  many 
people  they're  likely  to  get  them  mixed  up.    But  what's 
the  difference?     You  gave  them  a  dose  of  their  own 
medicine,  and  they'll  never  get  over  it.     They'll  be  all 
the  stronger  for  you  now.     Look  out  for  that.     It's  the 
only  way  to  treat  a  man — just  hit  the  brute  with  a  club 
and  he'll  lick  your  hand," 


1 88  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"You  haven't  asked  me  about  the  girls  to  whom  I  sent 
the  jewels,  Winnie?" 

"And  I  won't,"  was  her  quick  retort.  "What  good 
would  that  do  me?  They're  two  out  of  how  many? 
When  you  learn  as  much  as  I  have  learned  by  simply 
looking  on  you'll  not  bother  about  names,  for  that's  all  it 
amounts  to.  One  name  to-day,  another  name  to-morrow 
— that's  how  the  girls  come  in  and  go  out  in  New  York. 
Thank  heaven,  Frizzie,  you're  something  more  than  a 
name  now.  You  haven't  given  those  devils  a  chance  to 
say  six  months  or  twelve  months  from  now,  'You  re- 
member that  Frizzie  girl — wasn't  she  a  hummer?'  I  tell 
you,  Frizzie,  I  admire  you.  If  I  had  one-half  your  grit 
I'd  take  a  whip  and  make  a  few  men  I  know  dance  a 
hornpipe.  .  .  .  But  wait  here  a  second." 

She  ran  out  of  the  room,  and  returned  quickly  with  a 
dear,  little  baby  girl  in  her  arms  and  her  mother  and 
Stella  behind  her.  No  formality  was  wasted.  Mrs. 
Caine  and  Stella  both  came  over  and  kissed  me — a  thing 
Winnie  never  had  done.  Stella  was  a  frail,  little  crea- 
ture, with  great,  round  blue  eyes  and  a  small,  narrow 
mouth  drooping  at  the  corners.  Mrs.  Caine  was  fat  and 
flushed  of  face,  and  her  hands  were  red  and  rough.  She 
refused  to  let  me  rise  from  the  couch,  but  stood  over  me 
patting  my  hair. 

"Winnie's  been  telling  Stella  and  me  all  about  you, 
dear.  Lordy,  Lordy,  how  you  girls  do  come  here,  and 
not  knowing  a  thing  what  it's  like!  It's  a  sin  to  see  a 
good-looking  girl  like  you,  dear,  turned  loose  in  New 
York  with  no  one  to  look  after  you.  I  wish  we  poor 
old  mothers  could  be  left  to  do  for  our  daughters,  but 
who  cares  for  us?" 

"Now,  mother!"  reproved  Winnie. 

"That's  Winnie  herself  for  you,  dear,"  continued  Mrs. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  189 

Caine.  "She's  never  known  what  it  is  to  be  without  a 
mother,  and  if  she  hadn't  me  to  run  to  maybe  she'd  talk 
different.  What  would  Stella  be  doing  this  minute  if 
I  hadn't  kept  the  home  together  and  had  it  for  her  to 
turn  to  when  her  man  went  back  on  her?  I  wish  I  had 
a  home  big  enough  for  all  the  girls  in  New  York;  I'd 
take  them  all  in  and  I  wouldn't  ask  anything  better  than 
being  a  mother  to  them." 

"You  don't  object  to  my  stopping  with  you  for  a  few 
days,  Mrs.  Caine?"  I  asked. 

"Mind,  child?  Indeed,  I  don't — I*  mind  if  you 
wanted  to  go  away  and  leave  us.  One  mouth  to  feed 
more  or  less  doesn't  make  any  difference,  and  when  Win- 
nie's spoken  for  you  it's  all  right.  I've  always  worked 
in  with  my  daughters,  and  I'm  proud  of  them  both — 
they're  good  girls." 

"No  boasting,  mother,"  said  Winnie,  smiling.  "That's 
one  of  mother's  weaknesses,  Frizzie — to  boast  her  two 
girls  are  the  best  in  the  world." 

"Of  course,  you're  the  best  daughters  in  the  world, 
you  little  tearaways,"  said  Mrs.  Caine,  bustling  toward 
the  door.  "Dear  knows,  though,  you've  been  enough 
trouble  to  me,  but  what's  a  mother's  life  without  trouble? 
.  .  .  Stay  here  and  talk  the  three  of  you  and  spoil 
Stella's  baby.  I  must  be  off  to  my  kitchen ;  I  can  smell 
that  pie  burning." 

I  heard  the  good  woman  humming  to  herself  as  she 
went  back  along  the  dark,  narrow  hall. 

"Why  don't  you  say  something,  Stella?"  asked  Win- 
nie. "You  wouldn't  think,  Frizzie,  she's  three  years 
younger  than  I  am?  She  is,  and  she  looks  ten  years 
older." 

The  girl  had  taken  a  position  near  the  window,  and 


190  IN  THE  CURRENT 

she  turned  her  face  away  until  it  almost  brushed  the 
curtain. 

"She's  been  that  quiet  ever  since  she  came  back  home," 
added  Winnie.  "I'd  get  over  it  if  I  were  you,  Stella. 
Isn't  the  baby  enough  for  you.  He's  not  worrying  his 
head  about  you,  and  I  wouldn't  worry  my  head  about 
him.  You  don't  imagine  he  ever  thinks  of  you?" 

Stella  looked  sorrowfully  at  her  sister.  "How  do  I 
know  that?"  she  asked.  "If  he  was  thinking  and  I 
wasn't,  think  how  terrible  it  would  be,  Winnie?" 

She  stepped  over  and  caught  the  baby  nervously  to 
her  breast,  and  gazed  down  at  it  with  mother's  love  in 
her  eyes. 

"If  you  don't  know  he  never  thinks  of  you  and  doesn't 
care  a  cent  for  you,  Stella,  I  know,"  said  Winnie.  "What 
kind  of  a  man  is  he  that  deserts  the  girl  he's  married 
and  their  baby?  I  wouldn't  give  a  snap  of  my  fingers 
for  him.  I'd  let  him  go  and  I'd  say  good  riddance  for 
it.  You  cried  over  him  too  long,  Stella.  He  forced  you 
into  the  divorce,  and  what  are  you  crying  over  him  yet 
for?" 

"Oh,  Winnie,  Winnie,  don't  you  see  it's  not  so  much 
him  as  the  baby!"  cried  Stella.  "Think  when  it  grows 
up!" 

"That's  the  trouble  with  you  always,  Stella,"  said  Win- 
nie. "You're  always  living  the  life  that's  past  or  the  life 
that's  to  come,  when  maybe  you  and  the  baby  will  be  in 
your  grave.  Every  time  I  talk  to  you  off  you  go  like 
a  Third  Avenue  melodrama.  You  tell  me  I've  no  sym- 
pathy for  you,  and  I've  got  all  the  sympathy  in  the 
world.  I  try  to  tell  you  that  if  I  were  in  your  shoes  I'd 
have  sympathy  for  myself,  but  you  won't  listen.  The 
only  sympathy  you've  got  is  for  that  lout  of  a  fellow." 

Stella  brought  the  baby  to  me  and  laid  it  tenderly  in 


IN  THE   CURRENT  191 

my  lap.  "I'll  depend  on  you  to  like  it,  Frizzie,"  she 
said.  "Couldn't  you  love  it?" 

I  saw  her  wistful  longing,  and  I  lifted  the  baby  and 
kissed  it  on  both  cheeks. 

"I  will  love  it,  Stella,"  I  said  fervently,  and  the  girl 
beamed  upon  me.  She  drew  back  and  brushed  her  hair 
and  her  forehead  languidly  with  her  hand. 

"Now,  Winnie,  I've  got  some  one  to  help  me  against 
you,"  she  said.  Winnie  sprang  up  and  pressed  the 
baby's  face  in  her  hands. 

"Bless  your  little  heart,"  she  said,  "I  hope  you  won't 
grow  up  to  be  as  foolish  as  your  mother." 

Mrs.  Caine  called  at  that  moment,  and  we  filed  back 
to  the  dining-room,  more  cramped  even  than  the  parlor, 
and  feasted  on  an  egg  apiece,  dry  toast  and  coffee  with- 
out milk. 

"There's  not  much  grandeur  in  living  here,"  said  Win- 
nie, indicating  with  a  smiling  glance  the  dull  red  burlap 
on  the  walls,  the  half-curtain  on  the  window,  the  lino- 
leum on  the  floor,  the  four  oak  chairs  and  the  square 
oak  table,  at  which  we  sat.  "We're  crammed  tight  as 
sardines  in  these  flat-houses,"  added  Winnie.  "If  you 
were  hungry  you  could  reach  an  arm  into  the  dining- 
room  of  the  flat  across  the  air-shaft  and  help  yourself  off 
the  table." 

"You  ought  to  be  thankful  we're  not  on  the  first  floor, 
Winnie,  where  they  have  to  burn  the  gas  for  light  all 
day,"  reproved  Mrs.  Caine. 

"I'm  not  complaining,  mother,"  said  Winnie.  "You 
know  these  flats  are  swell  compared  to  the  flats  down  in 
the  real  East  Side.  There  they  have  rooms  without  a 
window,  and,  anyhow,  we  get  a  smell  of  fresh  air  here." 

"I  think  it's  very  nice,"  I  said. 

"There  are  only  about  three  million  people  in  New 


1 92  IN  THE  CURRENT 

York  living  like  this,"  said  Winnie.  "A  foreigner  com- 
ing here  might  think  we've  as  little  room  in  this  country 
as  the  Dutch."  She  pushed  back  her  chair  and  got  to 
her  feet  "With  that  I'll  leave  you  all,"  she  said.  "I'm 
the  best  part  of  an  hour  past  my  time  as  it  is." 

"Where  are  you  going,  Winnie?"  I  asked. 

"To  work,"  she  replied.  "To  work — thank  heaven, 
when  everything  else  fails  me  I  can  work.  I'm  the 
cashier  in  a  grab-your-food-and-run  restaurant,  Frizzie 
— where  they  come  in  to  luncheon  on  one  breath,  eat, 
drink,  tip,  pay  the  pretty  cashier  and  exit  on  the  next." 

"Be  off  with  you,  Winnie,"  commanded  her  mother 
good-naturedly.  "You've  got  too  much  to  say  for  a  girl 
of  your  age." 

"All  right,  mother,"  said  Winnie.  "I'll  shut  up,  and 
then  there  won't  be  a  word  spoken  in  this  house.  Good- 
by,  old  grumpies !"  She  tossed  her  head  in  mock  indig- 
nation, and  on  her  way  out  turned  at  the  door.  "Stella, 
I've  got  just  one  word  of  advice  for  you:  Don't  take 
Frizzie  off  in  a  corner  and  give  her  a  headache  with  your 
tale  of  woe.  You  ought  to  say  skiddoo  to  that  rainy-day 
disposition  of  yours." 

"I'll  try,  Winnie,"  said  Stella. 

"I  would  if  I  were  you,"  replied  Winnie.    "So  long." 

"Bless  that  girl,  Winnie,"  said  Mrs.  Caine,  as  we  heard 
the  door  close,  "she's  the  plague  of  my  life  with  her  talk- 
ing, but  I  wouldn't  change  her  for  the  world.  I  only 
hope  some  man  doesn't  marry  her  and  crush  the  spirit 
out  of  her." 

"No  one  ever  will  do  that,  mother,"  said  Stella. 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Mrs.  Caine.  "Every  girl  thinks 
that  before  she's  married — there's  yourself,  Stella.  But 
we  won't  talk  about  that.  Come,  Frizzie,  and  I'll  show 
you  your  room." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  193 

She  led  the  way  through  a  swinging  door  into  the 
kitchen  and  on  into  a  tiny  room  with  the  window  showing 
on  the  rear  of  another  flat-house,  with  fire-escapes  and 
clotheslines  breaking  the  narrow  alley. 

"This  was  Stella's  room  before  she  married,"  said 
Mrs.  Caine,  "and  it  was  waiting  for  her  when  she  came 
back." 

"I  will  not  drive  Stella  out,  Mrs.  Caine,"  I  said. 

"Lord  bless  you,  child,  if  you  don't  take  it  as  Stella 
and  I  want  you  to,  Winnie  will  make  you.  Both  the 
girls  spent  the  best  part  of  a  day  fixing  it  up  for  you,  and 
then  when  we  heard  you  weren't  coming  Stella  moved 
back  in  again.  They  enameled  the  bed,  and  they  put 
that  pink  paper  on  the  wall,  and  that  dotted  muslin  on 
the  window." 

"They  did  all  this  for  me,  Mrs.  Caine  ?"  I  asked  deeply 
moved. 

"Why,  that's  nothing  at  all,  dear;  if  they  hadn't  done 
it,  sure  I  would  have  done  it  myself.  And  you  mustn't  let 
on  I  told  you,  for  they  made  me  swear  I'd  never  whisper 
it — but  what  harm  is  there  in  telling  you  about  the  good- 
ness of  my  girls?" 

We  went  into  the  kitchen,  and  Mrs.  Caine  drew  me  to 
her  and  bent  close  to  my  ear. 

"If  Stella  wants  to  talk,  promise  me  you'll  listen,  Friz- 
zie?  Winnie's  hard  on  her,  but  she  doesn't  mean  all  she 
says." 

"I  will  listen,  Mrs.  Cain,"  I  affirmed,  "with  all  my 
heart!" 

"Thank  you,  dear ;  now  run  off  to  the  parlor  till  I  get 
something  done." 

I  went  slowly  along  the  hall.  It  was  good  to  think  I 
had  found  that  New  York  had  a  heart! 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

STELLA  was  in  the  parlor,  evidently  waiting  for  me.  I 
had  only  to  look  at  her  to  know  the  reason  for  Winnie's 
fear  she  might  burden  me  with  her  troubles.  Her  eyes 
were  filled  with  yearning,  and  her  lips  twitched  as  if  she 
was  about  to  cry. 

"Sit  beside  me  on  the  couch,  Stella,"  I  said,  "and  just 
tell  me  everything." 

"Oh,  will  you  listen,  Frizzie?"  she  exclaimed  with  a 
glad  little  cry,  and  ran  eagerly  to  me.  "Dot  hasn't  been 
very  well  lately,  but  she's  sleeping  now — and  you  will 
listen,  won't  you?" 

"Yes,  yes,  Stella,  I  will  listen,"  I  said. 

"Then  I'll  ask  you  just  one  question — you  won't  think 
it's  foolish  of  me  ?  Say  you  won't !" 

"No,  I  won't,  Stella,"  I  replied  earnestly. 

"Were  you  ever  in  love;  not  ordinary  love,  but  ter- 
rible, terrible  love  that  changed  everything,  that  made 
you  so  patient  and  forgiving  and  brave — brave  so  you 
wouldn't  fear  fire  for  his  sake?" 

I  was  pondering  the  question  in  silence  and  wondering 
what  answer  I  should  make,  when  there  came  a  low,  dis- 
tinct knock  on  the  door  opening  into  the  hall.  Stella 
caught  her  hands  at  her  breast,  and  her  breath  seemed 
to  leave  her. 

"It's  Andy,"  she  whispered  in  a  hushed  voice,  and  put 
a  hand  softly  on  my  arm.  "I  didn't  expect  him  for  an- 

194 


IN  THE  CURRENT  195 

other  hour.  If  I  let  him  in,  promise  you'll  never  tell 
Winnie." 

"I  promise,  Stella,"  I  said,  and  she  rose  and  opened 
the  door. 

"Anything  up  yet?"  asked  a  man's  voice. 

"Hush,  hush,  Andy,"  said  Stella,  "there's  somebody. 
Come  in." 

She  led  the  way  to  the  center  of  the  room,  and  in 
much  embarrassment  introduced  me  to  Andy  Thorne.  He 
was  an  undersized,  narrow-shouldered,  narrow-chested 
man  about  twenty-five  years  old,  with  his  hair  bare  on 
top  and  parted  in  the  middle;  his  face  thin  and  pointed, 
and,  I  thought,  mean.  His  mouth  was  straight  across 
and  hard  and  cruel,  and  his  hands  were  long  and  lean 
and  white  and  looked  as  if  they  belonged  to  a  crafty, 
suspicious  person.  His  well-worn  tweed  coat  was  but- 
toned tightly  over  his  little  body ;  his  trousers  were  close- 
fitting,  and  frayed  at  the  bottom  over  tan-colored  shoes. 
His  collar  was  ill-fitting  and  too  high,  and,  like  his  red 
tie,  showed  the  effects  of  wear.  At  Stella's  bidding  he 
took  a  chair,  sinking  into  it  as  if  afraid  of  himself;  and 
finally  settling  with  his  feet  close  together  and  his  knees 
touching.  When  I  tried  to  look  him  squarely  in  the  eyes 
he  glanced  furtively  about  the  room.  He  seemed  afraid 
to  trust  himself  to  speak,  and  I  could  not  help  asking 
myself :  How  could  Stella  ever  love  or  think  of  marrying 
such  a  man? 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  to  talk,  Andy,"  said  Stella. 
"Miss  Peabody  has  promised  me  she  will  not  say  a  word 
to  Winnie." 

"I  don't  know  about  that,  though,"  said  Thorne,  with 
an  attempt  at  a  smile.  "Girls  find  it  hard  to  keep  quiet 
sometimes." 

"I  will  not  intrude,  Stella,"  I  said,  rising. 


196  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Don't  go,  Frizzle,  please  don't,"  pleaded  Stella;  and 
Thorne  added:  "Don't  let  me  drive  you  away;  I  didn't 
mean  nothing." 

I  seated  myself  again.  Stella  shifted  uneasily  at  rny 
side,  but  finally  gathered  courage: 

"Well,  Andy,  I  hope  things  are  brightening?' 

"They're  not,"  he  retorted  bluntly.  "I'm  broke— flat 
broke." 

"And  there's  nothing  for  me  or  the  baby — not  a  cent  ?" 
asked  Stella. 

"How  could  there  be  a  cent  when  I  haven't  a  cent  for 
myself?"  replied  the  man  peevishly.  "Things  couldn't 
come  worse  for  me,  and  you  and  the  kid  are  all  right 
here,  aren't  you?  I've  been  trying,  but  I  haven't  been 
able  to  get  my  feet  under  me  since  Wesson  fired  me. 
Damn  him,  he  had  no  right  to  do  it." 

"Do  you  mean  Roy  Wesson?"  I  asked. 

"Yes,  I  mean  Roy  Wesson ;  the  fellow  that  gave  Win- 
nie a  job  and  fired  her,  and  gave  me  a  job  and  fired  me. 
He's  a  fine  one,  he  is.  But  maybe  he's  a  friend  of 
yours  ?" 

"We  were  friends,"  I  said. 

"But  you're  not  any  more?  It's  something  new  for 
him  to  give  a  good-looking  girl  like  you  the  shake. 
Stella's  been  telling  me  something  about  you." 

"You  mustn't  say  I  told  you,  Andy,"  protested  Stella, 
as  I  looked  at  her  in  surprise  and  reproach. 

"Oh,  that's  all  right,  I  guess,"  he  said.  "I  know  Wes- 
son and  his  friend  Andrews,  and  the  kind  of  curs  they 
are.  Many's  the  bet  I  carried  to  the  poolroom  for  them 
when  I  was  down  there  clerking  for  ten  dollars  a  week, 
but  that  didn't  keep  him  from  firing  me,  or  framing  up 
a  lie  to  do  it." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  197 

"Something  may  turn  up,  Andy,"  said  Stella  hope- 
fully. 

"I  wish  something  would  turn  up  that  I  could  bleed 
them,"  said  Thorne,  and  with  a  malicious  look  of  satis- 
faction at  me  he  added,  "Maybe  something  will  turn  up." 
He  started  to  finger  the  rim  of  his  hat  on  his  knees.  "I 
went  the  round  of  the  department  stores  to-day,  but  they 
don't  want  any  one  that's  without  experience.  As  if  it 
took  experience  to  sell  a  yellow  or  green  ribbon!  I've 
been  thrown  down  on  that  city  job — the  district  leader 
was  only  stringing  me.  I've  got  no  pull,  and  all  he 
wanted  was  to  string  me  along  to  election,  when  I  might 
repeat  for  him." 

"Don't  lose  heart,  Andy,"  encouraged  the  valiant  Stella. 

"Oh,  I  won't  do  that,  because  I've  got  no  heart  to 
lose ;  it's  all  been  beaten  out  of  me.  I'd  like  to  help  you 
and  the  kid,  Stella,  but  you  see  how  it  is." 

"Yes,  Andy,  I  see  how  it  is,"  said  the  girl. 

"I  guess  I'll  be  going,"  he  said,  slowly  rising.  "You 
don't  happen  to  have  carfare  about  you,  Stella,  3o  you? 
It's  pretty  tough  to  have  to  walk  like  I  do." 

Stella  rushed  to  him  and  put  her  arms  around  his 
neck. 

"Andy,  if  I  had  it  I'd  give  it,  I'd  give  it  to  you — you 
know  I  would." 

"I  know  you  would,  but  what  good  does  that  do  me?" 
replied  Thorne.  He  made  a  feeble  effort  at  a  laugh. 
"But  you  mustn't  pull  a  fellow  by  the  neck  like  that — 
we're  not  married  any  longer.  Let  me  go." 

Stella  drew  back,  and  her  face  clouded  at  the  hideous 
jest.  She  cast  her  gaze  on  the  floor,  and  stood  trem- 
bling. 

"I  didn't  mean  anything;  you  know  I  didn't,"  said 
Thorne. 


198  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"I  know  that,  Andy,"  responded  the  wan  little  crea- 
ture, and  looked  up  with  a  smile.  "You  want  to  see 
Dot,  Andy  ?  She's  sleeping  for  the  first  time  in  two  whole 
days." 

"Don't  wake  her  up  for  me,"  said  the  father. 

"We'll  just  look  in,  Andy,"  said  Stella,  and  led  him, 
despite  his  reluctance,  to  one  of  the  two  small  bedrooms 
between  the  parlor  and  the  dining-room,  where  Dot  lay 
sleeping.  They  returned  in  less  than  a  minute,  and 
Thorne  went  away  without  giving  Stella  the  kiss  her 
heart  craved.  She  stood  in  the  window  and  watched  him 
go  up  the  street.  Then  she  turned  to  me  with  a  look 
of  deep  disappointment. 

"He  never  looked  back,"  she  said,  "but,  Frizzie,  you 
couldn't  be  hard  on  him  like  Winnie  and  mother?" 

"Indeed,  indeed,  I  could  not  be  hard  on  him,  Stella," 
I  responded,  with  an  emphasis  that  came  without  the 
least  effort. 

"Thank  you  so  much  for  that,  Frizzie.  It  was  Winnie 
brought  him  here,  and  now  it  is  Winnie  is  hardest  on 
him.  Maybe  it  was  a  mistake  our  marrying,  but  other 
people  make  mistakes,  too." 

"Yes,  they  do,  Stella,"  I  said,  at  the  moment  thinking 
seriously  of  myself. 

"I  don't  know  where  Winnie  met  Andy,  but  one  night 
when  it  was  blowing  and  raining  he  came  home  here  with 
her,  and  that  was  the  beginning.  He  wanted  Winnie, 
but  she  laughed  at  him;  she  snapped  her  fingers  in  his 
face  when  he  asked  her  to  marry  him,  and  then  he  asked 
me.  Of  course,  he  didn't  ask  right  off  or  I  might  have 
refused  him;  but  he  started  taking  me  here  and  there 
and  he  was  the  first  one  ever  cared  about  me  and  I  got 
to  love  him.  We  used  to  go  in  the  gallery  down  in  the 
Academy  of  Music  and  over  in  the  Fourteenth  Street 


IN  THE  CURRENT  199 

Theatre,  and  the  times  we  had!  He  never  broke  an  en- 
gagement, not  one;  and  he  was  always  so  nice  in  bring- 
ing me  little  presents,  that  I  thought  more  of  than  big 
things.  Mother  and  Winnie  said  if  I  would  marry  him 
I  would  marry  sorrow,  but  that  didn't  stop  me.  We  just 
went  out  and  came  back  man  and  wife,  and  Winnie  never 
said  a  word  but  got  Wesson  to  give  Andy  that  job.  We 
had  four  rooms  in  the  next  street  to  this,  and  we  lived 
there  and  stopped  going  to  the  theatres.  Then  the  baby 
came  and  he  left  me  alone  with  it,  and  mother  and  Winnie 
made  me  get  the  divorce.  They  did  that,  and  Winnie 
says  Andy  drove  me  to  it.  Maybe  if  I'd  held  off,  as  I 
wanted  to,  we  would  have  made  up;  but  there  was  the 
rent  not  paid,  and  the  furniture  we'd  bought  on  the  in- 
stallment plan  was  taken  from  us,  and  I  had  to  come  back 
here.  Andy  stuck  down  there  with  Wesson,  paying  me 
four  dollars  a  week  as  the  court  ordered  him,  until  Win- 
nie was  fired  and  then  he  was  fired.  If  Andy  got  half  a 
chance  there  wouldn't  be  a  man  squarer  than  him.  I 
couldn't  care  for  him  more  than  I  do  this  minute,  and 
that's  why  I  asked  were  you  ever  in  love — in  terrible, 
terrible  love  that  changes  everything." 

"I  understand,  Stella,"  I  said. 

"I  thought  you  would,  Frizzie,  and  I  won't  ask  you 
that  question  ever  again.  I  shouldn't  have  done  it;  I 
know  now  it  was  wrong.  Only — only  it  was  because  I 
was  looking  somewhere,  groping  around  somewhere,  to 
find  one  that  might  feel  like  I  feel — and  I've  found  you, 
Frizzie,  haven't  I?" 

"You  have,  Stella,"  I  replied,  and  without  further  talk 
I  gathered  her  in  my  arms.  She  nestled  to  me  like  a 
forlorn  child,  and  both  of  us  found  relief — well,  I  won't 
tell  you  how !  When  she  raised  her  face  it  was  filled  with 
a  look  of  supreme  content,  and  I  could  only  wonder  at  it. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

WE  were  in  the  parlor.  Stella  was  crooning  over  the 
baby.  Mrs.  Caine  was  reading  "Advice  to  Lovers,"  by 
Beatitude  Heartfix,  in  an  evening  newspaper.  Winnie 
and  I  were  seated  on  the  couch. 

"Do  you  think  I  will  have  difficulty  in  finding  a  posi- 
tion, Winnie?"  I  asked. 

"You  can  take  your  pick,"  she  replied.  "You've  only 
got  to  walk  in  and  show  yourself;  if  there's  not  a  job 
open  one  will  be  made  for  you." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  display  so  much  bitterness,  Win- 
nie ;  it's  enough  to  make  me  despondent." 

"You'll  be  lucky  if  you  get  no  worse  than  that,"  she 
responded.  "Wait  until  you  go  looking  for  a  job.  Start 
out  in  the  morning,  and  I  bet  inside  two  hours  you'll  have 
a  dozen  jobs  offered  to  you  and  be  asked  out  to  lunch 
just  as  often.  There  isn't  a  bald-headed  man  in  New 
York  that  won't  ask  you  out  to  lunch." 

"What  am  I  to  do,  Winnie?"  I  asked,  almost  despair- 
ing. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  to  do:  Leave  the  men  in  the  offices 
alone,  because  if  they  didn't  insult  you  they  would  work 
you  to  death.  Leave  the  department  stores  alone,  be- 
cause you'd  be  asked  to  feed  yourself,  room  yourself, 
clothe  yourself  and  wear  a  smile  nine  hours  long  on  six 
dollars  a  week;  without  time  when  you're  behind  the 
counter  to  figure  you've  got  to  slave  an  hour  for  car- 
fare to  take  you  to  the  store  and  back  nome  again.  Leave 

200 


IN  THE  CURRENT  201 

the  doctors  alone,  because  all  you  would  get  for  ushering 
in  consumptives  and  lunatics  would  be  seven  dollars  for 
twelve  hours  seven  days  in  a  row.  Leave  the  restaurant- 
cashier  business  alone,  because  with  the  smell  of  steak 
and  French-fried  potatoes  in  your  nose  you'd  be  half- 
starved  on  nine  dollars  a  week,  without  tips.  There's 
just  one  thing  you  ought  to  do,  and  that's  go  as  com- 
panion to  some  old  lady  that's  got  so  much  money  her 
relatives  are  waiting  for  her  to  die ;  and  who  is  wishing 
for  one  friend  she  can  depend  won't  give  her  poison. 
That's  the  only  kind  of  job  for  a  self-respecting  girl. 
There  are  a  hundred  things  you  might  be — you  might 
be  a  nurse  or  a  stenographer  or  a  manicure,  but  they  all 
come  to  the  same.  Before  she  knows  it  the  girl  that 
works  for  a  living  has  ugly  hands  and  she's  careless 
about  her  appearance,  and  the  worst  of  it  is  she  never 
seems  to  care.  Some  women  are  doctors  and  some  are 
lawyers,  but  if  all  women  were  doctors  or  lawyers  it 
wouldn't  disturb  Nature,  not  one  bit.  The  only  real  job 
for  a  woman  is  a  married  job,  and  you'll  get  chances  as 
a  companion,  Frizzie,  you'd  never  get  as  a  sewing- 
machine  girl  or  a  cloak-model." 

"I  know  nothing  about  being  a  companion,"  I  said, 
timidly. 

"You  don't  need  to  know,"  responded  Winnie.  "If  you 
can  make  a  bluff  at  a  couple  of  languages  that's  all  you 
want.  I  knew  a  companion  once,  and  she  told  me  how 
easy  it  was.  All  you've  got  to  do  is  to  read  to  the  old 
soul,  listen  to  her  stories  of  romances  when  she  takes 
them  out  of  camphor,  cry  every  time  she  cries,  and  order 
the  servants  about  haughty-like  as  if  you  were  born  to 
it.  When  you  get  lonely  of  the  companion  business  you 
can  come  here  and  freshen  up  on  mother  and  Stella  and 
me.  It  won't  take  you  long,  though,  to  grab  off  some 


202  IN  THE  CURRENT 

nephew  or  other,  and  then  come  in  to  some  of  the  old 
lady's  money." 

"I  never  will  think  of  marrying,  and  that's  final,  Win- 
nie," I  asserted. 

"You've  got  to  be  practical  if  you  want  to  get  on," 
she  replied.  "You  won't  marry!  What  are  you  alive 
for?" 

"I  won't,"!  insisted. 

"Who  is  he?"  asked  Winnie;  and  then  I  became  con- 
fused under  her  inquiring  look.  "Oh,  I  guess  you  don't 
need  to  tell  me;  but  you'll  get  over  Roy  Wesson  before 
long." 

"Well,  dear  me,"  said  Mrs.  Caine,  putting  her  news- 
paper on  her  lap,  "it's  wonderful  the  wisdom  this  Beati- 
tude Heartfix  has.  She  gives  such  good  advice.  Here's 
one  girl  writes  to  her  and  says  a  man  that  once  was  her 
sweetheart  still  kisses  her  when  he's  married  to  another 
girl,  and  what  will  she  do?  'If  he  was  a  real  man  he 
would  not  attempt  to  kiss  you,  and  when  he  tries  again 
repulse  him/  says  Miss  Heartfix,  and  that's  what  I 
say." 

"Everybody  knows  that,  mother,"  said  Winnie. 

"But  that  girl  doesn't  know,"  responded  Mrs.  Caine 
confidently,  "and  that's  why  I  think  these  papers  do  a 
world  of  good." 

The  door-bell  rang  sharply. 

"I  hope  that's  not  Thorne,  Stella,"  said  Winnie. 

"I  don't  know,  Winnie,"  replied  the  girl. 

Winnie  went  into  the  hall  and  returned  in  a  moment, 
and  looked  at  me.  "Did  you  invite  Wesson  here?"  she 
demanded. 

"No,  no,  Winnie,"  I  said,  excitedly  rising. 

"Well,  he's  coming  up  the  stairs."  She  glanced  out 
through  the  door.  "Here  he  is  now.  Come  in."  She 


IN  THE   CURRENT  203 

stepped  back,  and  Roy  entered.  "I  suppose  you  two 
want  to  talk,  so  we'll  get  out  of  here,"  she  said  coldly. 
"Come  on,  mother  and  Stella,  we'll  get  out." 

"Don't  go,  Winnie,"  I  implored.     "You  stay." 

"Mother  and  Stella,  won't  you  come,"  said  Winnie  im- 
patiently, and  before  I  could  protest  further  she  walked 
quickly  from  the  room.  Mrs.  Caine  and  Stella  followed 
her,  and  Stella  closed  the  door.  Roy  shut  the  other  door 
behind  him,  then  stepped  toward  me. 

"You're  going  to  come  with  me  out  of  here,"  he  as- 
serted. 

"I'm  not,  Roy,"  I  replied. 

"Yes,  you  are — you're  going  to  come  with  me." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Roy?"  I  asked  sharply. 

"I  mean  that  I'm  going  to  have  you  even  if  you  don't 
want  me  to ;  it  won't  do  you  any  good  to  fight.  Do  you 
hear  what  I'm  saying  to  you?"  He  moved  closer.  "I'm 
going  to  start  right  here;  I'm  going  to  kiss  you  for  all 

you've  done  to  me.     I'll  kiss  you,  you  little ."     He 

drew  near,  within  a  few  inches  of  me,  but  I  held  myself 
rigid,  although  the  smell  of  liquor  was  strong  on  my 
face.  "What!  You're  not  afraid  of  me;  you  dare  me!" 
He  raised  his  arms.  "I'll  do  it;  by  God,  I'll  do  it.  I'll 
take  that  kiss  this  minute."  I  remained  motionless,  and 
he  half-turned  and  dropped  to  the  couch.  "Oh,  who 
wants  to  kiss  a  girl  like  you — standing  there  as  if  you 
were  built  of  ice?"  He  looked  up  with  a  vacant  stare. 
"Look  at  you!  Ready  to  snap  the  nose  off  a  man.  What 
kind  of  a  frapped  creature  are  you,  anyway?" 

"I  thought  you  said  you  would  stop  drinking,  Roy?" 
I  said,  not  without  pity. 

"Why  should  I  stop?  Everybody  drinks — you'll  drink 
with  me  yet,  Frizzie." 

"'You  make  a  mistake  in  thinking  that,  Roy." 


204  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Well,  I  can  keep  on  thinking  it  if  I  want  to,  can't 
I?"  He  rose  slowly  and  gripped  the  back  of  a  chair. 
"What  do  you  see  in  this  place?  It's  not  good  enough 
for  first-class  swine.  You're  too  good  for  a  cheap  joint 
like  this;  you're  too  smart  to  sit  down  in  poverty  when 
you  might  be  wearing  diamonds.  Oh,  the  diamonds! 
That  was  a  clever  trick  you  played  me!  It  took  me 
quite  a  while  to  catch  on  when  Betty  telephoned.  She 
took  those  diamonds  for  a  peace-offering;  wasn't  that 
rich?  She  thought  I  sent  them,  and  I  let  her  keep  on 
thinking  it.  It  pleased  her,  but  there'll  be  no  making 
up.  I've  cast  her  off  and  all  of  her  stripe  forever.  I've 
cast  her  off  for  you,  Frizzie.  I  would  give  up  a  shipload 
of  Camillas  and  Bettys  for  a  thoroughbred  like  you.  I 
mean  that;  I've  never  had  a  chase  half  as  exciting  as 
this.  Camilla  and  Betty  have  no  imagination;  they 
wouldn't  do  with  the  jewels  what  you  did.  If  they  got 
rid  of  them  it  would  be  in  a  pawnshop.  They're  common, 
they're  vulgar,  but  you — why  you're  a  gem,  you're  a 
duckydarling,  Frizzie !" 

"I  won't  listen;  you  must  go,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"You've  got  to  listen  to  me,"  he  said.  "You've  got  it 
in  your  pretty  head  I've  come  here  to  lead  you  astray; 
to  play  the  cat  like  I  did  when  I  engaged  in  that  con- 
spiracy with  Camilla.  I  could  buy  Camilla  any  day  for 
a  dirty  game  like  that,  but  I'm  not  buying  people  any 
more.  I'm  not  trying  to  buy  you  or  put  a  price  on  you, 
Frizzie.  I'm  coming  to  you  now  like  a  man.  I  know 
the  cad  I've  been ;  but  every  man's  got  some  cad  in  him, 
and  I'm  done  with  being  a  cad.  I  want  you  to  marry 
me,  Frizzie;  I  want  you  to  marry  me  this  very  night. 
One  meets  a  girl  like  you  only  once  in  a  lifetime,  and  I'm 
not  going  to  lose  you.  I  don't  care  what  mother  says, 
and  father  will  fall  in  love  with  you  the  minute  he  sees 


IN  THE  CURRENT  205 

you.  You  don't  know  father;  he's  got  none  of  those 
aristocratic  notions.  It's  up  to  you,  Frizzie;  will  you 
marry  me?" 

"I  will  never  marry  you,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"I- won't  take  that  for  an  answer.  You're  the  first  girl 
Fve  ever  asked;  I  couldn't  run  the  chance  before  be- 
cause I  would  have  been  taken  up.  I  waited  for  the 
girl,  Frizzie,  and  you  are  the  girl;  will  you  believe  me, 
you  are  the  girl !" 

"You  must  wait  until  you  know  better  what  you  are 
saying,  Roy." 

"You're  back  to  that  drink  question  again.  Don't  do 
that  What  man  wouldn't  take  a  drop  when  it  looks  as 
if  he's  lost  the  only  girl  that's  worth  bothering  his  head 
about?  I  wasn't  square  with  you,  Frizzie,  but  I'll  be 
square  after  this.  I  thought  you  were  out  for  a  frolic, 
like  all  who  take  the  dive  into  the  White  Light  District, 
but  I  didn't  know,  I  didn't  know,  Frizzie;  and  I'll  give 
you  that  kiss  to  show  you  how  honest  I  am." 

"You  won't  kiss  me,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"Can't  you  tell  when  a  man  means  it  and  when  he 
doesn't?  God,  Frizzie,  I'd  give  my  right  arm  for  you. 
Meet  me  half-way.  Kiss  me  yourself,  and  say  you  love 
me  as  I  love  you." 

"I  won't,  Roy." 

"What  right  have  I  to  ask  you  to  do  a  thing  like  that? 
Oh,  there's  a  lot  of  the  cad  in  me,  but  there's  some  good 
in  me,  Frizzie;  and  it's  the  good  that's  asking  you  now 
to  be  my  wife.  Will  you  answer  me  one  fair  question? 
You  will  answer  me.  Say  that  you  care  for  me,  or  that 
you  don't?" 

I  faltered,  and  Roy  drew  near.  "You  can't  look  me 
in  the  eyes  and  say  you  don't  care  for  me,  Frizzie?" 

I  attempted  to  turn  away,  but  he  held  me  by  the  arm. 


206  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"I  knew  it,  Frizzie."  His  voice  was  triumphant.  "You 
do  care;  you  do!  What's  the  use  of  beating  about  the 
bush?  You  love  me!" 

"Let  me  go,  Roy,"  I  said,  and  he  released  his  hold. 

"You  do  love  me,"  he  asserted.  "You  love  me,  Frizzie, 
and  I  love  you.  I'll  say  it.  I  haven't  been  all  I  ought  to 
have  been,  but  that's  past,  and  let  us  call  it  quits  and  start 
even.  You'll  be  the  making  of  me;  I'll  make  you  proud 
of  me.  We'll  be  married  now ;  we'll  send  a  telegram  to 
the  old  folks  and  to-morrow  they'll  give  us  their  blessing 
— the  both  of  them." 

I  trembled  in  emotion.  I  tried  to  raise  my  eyes,  but 
I  could  not  summon  the  strength.  "You  do  love  me!" 
exclaimed  Roy,  and  taking  advantage  of  my  helplessness 
he  attempted  to  draw  me  to  him.  We  struggled  across 
the  room,  and  when  near  the  window  I  saw  the  door 
swing  a  few  inches  and  the  face  of  Prince  Andrews  ap- 
pear in  the  opening. 

"Mr.  Andrews!"  I  called,  and  Roy  dropped  me  and 
swung  around.  Andrews  entered  the  room  and  closed 
the  door. 

"I  thought  I  heard  the  voice  of  a  woman  in  distress, 
so  I  just  opened  the  door  and  looked  in,"  he  said.  "I 
imagine  you  had  better  be  getting  out,  Wesson." 

"What  do  you  mean,  coming  here  ?"  demanded  Roy. 

"If  I  were  you  I  should  know  when  the  game's  up," 
said  Andrews.  "It  always  was  your  way  to  exercise 
your  strong  right  arm,  but  you  have  found  one  young 
lady  who  will  not  submit  to  that  sort  of  thing." 

"Betty's  told  me  all  about  the  kind  of  friend  you  are," 
railed  Roy.  "You're  not  here  because  you've  been  in- 
vited; you're  here  because  Thorne  held  you  up  for  the 
address.  I've  found  you  always  were  a  sneak  with  me, 
Andrews,  and  you're  playing  the  sneak  now." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  207 

"I  guess  if  I  was  held  up  you  were  held  up  first; 
and  we  are  tarred  with  the  same  brush,  it  seems  to 
me,"  said  Andrews.  "But  that  isn't  here  nor  there; 
the  point  is  I  am  here  just  in  time  to  keep  you  from 
trying  to  win,  by  violence,  admiration  for  your  manly 
charms." 

"You're  insulting  Miss  Peabody,"  said  Roy,  "and  Miss 
Peabody  is  to  be  my  wife!" 

Andrews  tried  to  maintain  his  composure,  but  failed. 
His  face  grew  red  in  fury.  "So  that's  what  it 
is?"  he  sneered.  "It's  you  that  is  the  fool,  after  all, 
Wesson?" 

"Take  care,  Andrews,"  said  Roy,  "remember  of  whom 
you  are  speaking." 

"I'll  take  care,"  said  Andrews,  "and  don't  be  afraid 
I'll  forget  anything.  Maybe  when  she's  your  wife  she'll 
wear  a  few  of  the  diamonds  I  gave  her." 

"That's  not  true!"  I  cried,  starting  toward  Andrews, 
but  Roy  restrained  me  with  his  outstretched  arm. 

"Let  me  settle  with  him,"  said  Roy.  "Now,  Andrews, 
you'll  have  to  apologize — take  that  back,  apologize,  or 
I'll  kick  you  like  a  dog." 

"I  guess  you've  got  too  much  sense  left  to  try  that," 
defied  Andrews.  "You  want  to  know  whom  you're  mar- 
rying, don't  you?  I  guess  if  I  were  marrying  I'd  be 
thankful  for  some  one  to  come  and  tell  me  the  truth — if 
there  was  an  ugly  truth  to  come  out — even  if  it  did 
hurt  me." 

"You'll  take  that  back,  and  you'll  beg  Miss  Peabody's 
pardon,  Andrews,"  declared  Roy.  "Betty  told  me  of  you 
sneaking  around  in  the  dark  with  a  knife  to  drive  into 
my  back.  I  know  you,  and  you'll  apologize,  or  I'll  do  as 
I  say." 


208  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Ask  the  girl  herself,"  said  Andrews.  "Ask  her  where 
she  got  those  diamonds  now." 

"Roy,  Roy,  I  sent  them  all  to  Camilla,"  I  exclaimed, 
"and  Andrews  knows  that." 

"You  do  know  it?"  said  Roy. 

"Of  course,  I  know  it,"  he  sneered,  "and  you  know  that 
the  diamonds  you  sent  her  went  to  Betty.  What's  the 
matter  with  you,  Wesson?  What  are  you  sticking  up 
your  nose  at  me  for?  What  better  are  you  than  I? 
Where  do  you  come  in  with  a  demand  for  me  to  apolo- 
gize for  what  you've  done  yourself?  You're  a  fine  hypo- 
crite, you  are.  The  same  shoe  fits  both  of  us,  doesn't  it? 
And  I  guess  if  you  want  the  girl  for  your  wife  that's 
had  diamonds  from  both  of  us  you're  welcome  to  her. 
Good-by  and  good  luck  to  you  for  a  charming  pair." 

Roy  overtook  him  at  the  door,  and  sent  him  reeling  to 
the  middle  of  the  room  with  a  blow  in  the  face.  I  ran 
to  the  other  door  and  called,  "Winnie!  Winnie!"  She 
came  almost  instantly.  Andrews  was  whimpering  like 
a  coward  near  the  mantelpiece;  Roy  was  standing  off 
watching  him  in  rage  and  contempt.  Winnie  rushed 
straight  between  them. 

"Now  both  of  you  get  out,"  she  commanded. 

"You  won't  interfere  between  us,"  said  Roy.  "He's 
a  coward!" 

"I  will  interfere,"  said  Winnie  peremptorily.  "If  you 
don't  go  I'll  throw  both  of  you  out.  Go  in  the  street  and 
fight — and  never  show  your  faces  here  again,  either  of 
you." 

Andrews  slunk  around  Winnie  toward  the  door.  "You 
know  what  Winnie  can  do,"  he  said.  "Winnie  will  take 
care  of  you,  Wesson." 

"Stop  that,  Andrews,"  said  Winnie.     "Stop  it." 

Andrews  opened  the  door.    "I'd  do  anything  to  please 


IN  THE  CURRENT  209 

you,  Winnie;  you  know  I  always  would.  And  you  see 
what  it  brought  you,  sticking  to  Wesson?  But  I  guess 
it  was  just  as  well  we  never  came  to  terms — Roy  always 
said  you  were  the  devil  to  manage,  and  I  guess  that's 
the  truth." 

Winnie's  whole  frame  was  shaking  with  emotion.  Roy 
sprang  at  Andrews  with  an  oath,  but  the  man  evaded  him 
by  closing  the  door  and  holding  it  on  the  opposite  side. 
When  the  door  finally  flew  open  in  Roy's  hands  the 
ironical  laughter  of  Andrews,  as  he  ran  down  the  stairs, 
came  back  distinctly.  Roy  returned  quietly. 

"Why  did  you  come  back?"  asked  Winnie,  her  voice 
very  low,  but  firm  and  strangely  calm.  "You  and  An- 
drews have  done  enough,  I  think,  and  it's  about  time  for 
you  to  go." 

"It's  all  right,  Winnie,"  said  Roy.  "Frizzie  and  I  are 
to  marry." 

"You'll  never  marry  while  I'm  alive  to  stop  it,"  said 
the  girl.  "You  don't  think  for  a  minute,  Wesson,  I'd 
stand  by  and  let  Frizzie  throw  herself  away  on  you?" 

"That's  for  Frizzie  to  say,"  said  Roy. 

"I  can  answer  for  her,"  asserted  Winnie.  "Tell  him 
for  yourself,  Frizzie." 

"I  won't,  Roy,  I  won't,"  I  said. 

"There's  your  answer  for  you,  Wesson,"  said  Winnie. 
"Now  clear  out." 

"Frizzie  and  I  would  be  leaving  here  together  if  it 
wasn't  for  you,"  asserted  Roy  in  growing  anger. 
"You've  always  been  a  meddler." 

"Don't  you  dare  say  a  word  more  about  that,  Wesson ; 
I  know  what  you're  thinking." 

"You're  right — that's  just  what  I'm  thinking,"  de- 
clared Roy.  "It's  got  to  come  out  some  time.  Andrews 
spouted  most  of  it,  and  I  think  what  he  thinks." 


210  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"You'll  not  go  on  with  that,  Wesson,"  said  Winnie. 

"Please  don't,  Roy?"  I  pleaded,  filled  with  anxiety  for 
Winnie. 

"When  you  ask  me,  Frizzie,  I  can't,"  said  Roy.  "But 
let's  get  this  thing  settled.  You'll  go  out  with  me,  Friz- 
zie, and  we'll  be  married." 

"You  know  Frizzie's  mind,  Wesson,"  asserted  Winnie. 
"I've  stuck  by  her  this  far  and  I'll  stick  by  her  to  the 
end,  and  I'll  not  let  you  spoil  everything  for  her." 

"You  want  to  force  me,"  shouted  Roy.  "You  want  to 
save  her,  and  you're  a  sight  worse  than  the  worst  of 
them  yourself!" 

Winnie  stared  at  him  blankly,  her  face  pallid.  Roy 
smiled  cruelly,  and  was  the  first  to  break  the  terrible 
silence. 

"I'd  hardly  say  that  if  it  wasn't  the  truth,  or  if  I 
didn't  know  what  I  was  talking  about,"  he  said.  "An- 
drews wasn't  a  liar,  but  I  would  have  sworn  he  was  with 
my  last  breath  had  I  been  left  alone  to  marry  Frizzie  as 
I  want  to  and  will." 

Winnie  approached  him  with  her  hands  held  up  in 
piteous  entreaty. 

"After  all  that  has  passed  between  us,  Roy,  how  could 
you  do  that?"  she  said  in  a  breaking  voice.  "But  I  was 
mistaken,  and  you  know  I  only  wanted  to  save  Frizzie 
— when  I  wasn't  able  to  save  myself." 

"Yes,  you  were  mistaken,"  replied  Roy.  "You  were 
mistaken,  just  as  I've  been  mistaken  in  you.  It's  you 
that  has  raked  over  the  coals.  You  played  a  Judas  trick 
on  me  and  I'm  a  Judas  to  you.  We're  quits." 

"Yes,  we're  quits,"  said  Winnie,  sinking  to  the  couch 
and  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"I  am  ashamed  of  you,  Roy,"  I  said  with  much  feel- 
ing. 


IN  THE  CURRENT  211 

"I  couldn't  lose  you  to  spare  her,"  he  replied.  "She 
didn't  spare  me,  and  you  see  how  things  stand  now." 

"I  don't  see  how  things  stand,"  I  replied,  "except  that 
I  am  terribly,  terribly  disappointed  in  you." 

"You  will  thank  me  when  you  have  had  time  to  think 
it  all  over,"  said  Roy.  "We  should  have  been  married 
long  ago  only  for  her  pulling  against  me." 

"Married!"  cried  Winnie  bitterly,  as  she  rose  from 
the  couch.  "Married!"  she  repeated,  almost  at  the  top 
of  her  voice.  "I  like  that.  Yes,  you  would  have  been 
married  in  the  way  that  you  would  have  been  tired  of 
Frizzie  this  minute,  and  would  be  boasting  to  your  men 
friends  as  you  boasted" — she  paused,  then  shook  her  head 
determinedly — "yes,  I'll  say  it,  as  you  boasted  about  me." 

"Winnie,  Winnie !"  I  exclaimed  in  sympathy  for  her. 

"I  never  boasted,"  defended  Roy. 

"No,  no,  you  didn't,"  continued  Winnie.  "You  didn't 
boast — you  never  did  anything  but  placarded  it  just  as 
you're  placarding  it  to  Frizzie  now;  and  coming  into 
my  own  home  to  let  my  own  mother  know  about  it;  my 
mother  who  thinks  I'd  go  to  God  unspotted  if  I  died." 
She  ran  at  him,  her  hands  clenched  and  her  eyes  ablaze. 
"You  won't  do  it.  Do  you  hear  that — you  won't.  If 
Frizzie  wants  to  go  with  you,  very  well,  let  her  go,  but 
you  won't  come  into  my  home  and  blacken  my  name 
before  the  only  one  in  the  world  I  had  to  turn  to  when 
you  got  through  with  me  and  I  began  to  fight  to  get 
back." 

"Winnie,  Winnie,"  I  besought  her,  "I  won't  listen;  I 
won't." 

"You've  got  to  listen,"  she  replied.  "Do  you  want  to 
go  with  him?" 

"Never,  Winnie,"  I  said,  with  all  the  earnestness  that 
was  in  me. 


212  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"There's  your  answer  for  you,  Wesson." 

"No,  it's  not,"  Roy  said.  "I  won't  let  Frizzie  stop  in 
this  place  another  minute.  She  threw  over  Camilla,  and 
she'll  throw  over  you." 

"That's  your  game,  is  it?"  demanded  Winnie. 

"It  is,  if  you  want  to  call  it  that,"  said  Roy.  "Frizzie 
wasn't  to  be  caught  by  Camilla,  nor  by  Betty  and  she 
won't  be  led  astray  by  you.  You  won't  put  Frizzie  in 
their  class  if  I  have  anything  to  say  about  it.  What  bet- 
ter are  you?  You  went  the  same  pace,  and  you  soured, 
that's  all  that's  wrong  with  you." 

"You  wouldn't  talk  like  that  if  you  hadn't  drink  in 
you,  Wesson,"  said  Winnie.  "No,  you  wouldn't.  And 
if  it  came  to  a  showdown  I'd  trust  Frizzie  to  Andrews 
before  I'd  trust  her  to  you." 

"I  will  stay  with  Winnie,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"You  won't,  Frizzie,"  said  Roy.  "She  worked  me, 
and  she's  only  trying  to  get  even  now." 

"Aye,  I  worked  you,  Wesson,"  said  Winnie.  "I  worked 
you  when  you  came  and  took  me  out  of  the  chorus.  I 
was  doing  you  a  lot  of  harm,  when  I  didn't  know  you 
were  alive  till  you  came  blinding  me  with  your  money. 
I  worked  you  when  you  got  me  to  turn  my  back  on  my 
mother  and  Stella,  and  got  me  to  lie  to  them  that  I  was 
out  on  the  road  with  a  show.  I  worked  you  when  I  sent 
them  your  money  and  wrote  them  I  wished  I  could  save 
more  from  my  eighteen  dollars  a  week.  Oh,  Wesson, 
you're  a  fine  man  standing  there  and  saying  a  thing  like 
that.  I  worked  you  when  I  found  you'd  gone  cold  on 
me,  and  I  sat  down  with  my  heart  breaking  and  swore 
to  God  I'd  live  after  that  so  I  could  look  my  own  mother 
in  the  face.  I  worked  you  when  I  wouldn't  take  money 
from  selling  the  clothes  you  paid  for,  but  gave  them  to 
girls  who  wanted  to  go  that  way,  and  gave  you  back 


IN  THE  CURRENT  213 

your  rings.  I  worked  you  when  I  asked  you  for  a  job 
— and  promised  there  never  would  be  one  to  know — be- 
cause I  came  home  the  same  time  Stella  and  her  baby 
came  home,  and  Stella  and  the  baby  had  to  live  like  I 
had  to  live  and  my  mother  had  to  live.  I  worked  you 
when  I  let  you  fire  me  without  going  to  your  father  and 
holding  him  up  for  what  his  son  had  done  for  me.  Yes, 
Wesson,  I  worked  you;  I  worked  you." 

"Frizzie  won't  let  the  chance  slip  to  marry  me,"  said 
Roy. 

"What  have  you  got  to  offer  that  she  should  marry 
you?"  said  Winnie.  "Your  money — your  money  that's 
your  curse.  That's  all  you've  got  to  offer,  Wesson,  and 
it  isn't  enough." 

"I  won't,  Roy,"  I  asserted. 

"You'd  better  be  going,  Wesson,"  said  Winnie.  "Friz- 
rie's  not  a  fool  like  I  was,  or  like  Camilla  or  Betty." 

"I  won't  go,"  said  Roy  obstinately. 

"Yes,  you  will.  And  never  let  whisky  lead  you  here 
again,"  said  Winnie.  "You've  got  to  fight  whisky  be- 
fore you  think  of  marrying  any  girl.  And  I  know  how 
hard  you'll  fight,  and  what  will  become  of  you." 

Roy  looked  at  me  entreatingly.  "Do  you  hear  what 
she  says,  Frizzie?  Will  you  stand  for  that?  She  says 
I'm  drunk.  She  says  it's  a  drunken  man  asks  you. 
Don't  believe  it;  I'm  not  drunk.  I  was  never  soberer  in 
my  life.  I  want  you  to  be  my  wife — I  want  you  to 
marry  me  because  I  love  you."  His  voice  held  tender- 
ness, and  I  was  affected  by  it.  "You  will  come.  I  have 
not  been  a  saint,  I  know.  I  have  been  hard  on  Winnie, 
but  you've  seen  the  worst  side  of  me,  and  we'll  start  out 
now  and  I'll  brace  up  and  you'll  never  regret  it,  I'll  swear 
you  won't." 


2i4  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Winnie  opened  the  door  and  waited  silently.  Roy 
reached  out  his  arms  to  me. 

"Frizzie,"  he  said,  "will  you  take  me  for  all  the  mis- 
takes I've  made,  for  all  the  wrong  that's  in  me?" 

I  felt  he  could  not  have  made  a  stronger  plea.  I  was 
racked  with  anxiety  and  I  looked  beseechingly  at  Win- 
nie. She  gazed  at  me  coldly  and  that  decided  me.  I 
looked  straight  at  Roy. 

"I  won't,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"Never?"  he  asked. 

"Never,"  I  replied. 

He  went  to  the  door  and  stopped. 

"I  suppose  that's  the  most  I  can  hope  for,"  he  said 
slowly  and  seriously.  He  waited  a  few  moments,  then 
turned  to  Winnie.  "I  won't  ask  you  to  forgive  me,  Win- 
nie, because  I  am  past  forgiveness.  But  I'll  do  all  that's 
in  my  power,  and  that  is  to  say  I'd  rather  leave  Frizzie 
with  you  than  anybody  I  know." 

He  passed  out  and  Winnie  closed  the  door  softly.  She 
crossed  the  floor  to  me,  and  caught  one  arm  around  my 
waist,  and  with  her  hand  on  my  forehead  upturned  my 
face. 

"You  love  him,  Frizzie?" 

I  looked  at  her  through  blinding  tears.  "Don't  you 
know,  Winnie?"  I  asked. 

"I  know,  Frizzie,"  she  said,  "I  know." 

"You  love  him,  Winnie?" 

"I  don't,  and  I  never  did,"  she  asserted.  "I  hate  him ; 
I  hate  him!  And,  oh,  Frizzie,  it's  because  of  all  that's 
happened  to  me  that  I  want  to  save  you." 

Again  there  was  a  knock  on  the  door  and  Winnie 
went  over  and  turned  the  handle.  Thorne  came  sidling 
in,  his  hat  caught  by  the  rim  between  both  hands.  A 


IN  THE  CURRENT  215 

gratified  look  was  on  his  evil  face.  He  shuffled  from  foot 
to  foot. 

"I  wanted  to  see  Stella,  but  you'll  do,  Winnie,"  he  said, 
putting  his  right  hand  in  a  pocket  and  taking  out  a  roll 
of  money.  He  stripped  off  several  bills  and  held  them 
out.  "I  picked  a  fifty-to-one  shot,  Winnie,  and  here's 
a  slice  of  it  for  Stella  and  the  kid." 

Winnie  took  the  money,  crumpled  it  in  her  hand,  and 
threw  it  in  his  face. 

"I  know  where  that  money  comes  from,"  she  said. 
"Pick  it  up ;  pick  it  up  and  get  out." 

"If  you  don't  want  it  I  can  use  it,"  said  Thorne.  "I 
like  money." 

"Hurry  up,"  commanded  Winnie,  and  the  man  half- 
ran  from  the  room  as  if  afraid  of  her.  "There's  another 
kind,"  commented  the  girl.  "Wesson  with  his  millions; 
Thorne  scheming  for  a  dollar,  and  both  the  same  with 
women.  Oh,  I  tell  you,  Frizzie,  men  are  fair  and  square 
with  women !" 

"How  did  you  know  about  the  money,  Winnie?" 

"Mother  told  me  he  had  been  here,  and  it  wasn't  hard 
to  guess  he  sent  both  Andrews  and  Wesson." 

She  laughed  with  a  lightness  that  amazed  me. 

"But  here,  what  are  we  moaning  and  groaning  for? 
Come,  Frizzie,  let's  wake  up,  and  go  back  to  mother  and 
Stella  and  the  baby.  Anybody  would  think  we  had  the 
care  of  the  world  on  our  shoulders." 

"We  are  very  foolish,"  I  agreed. 

"Of  course  we  are,"  she  responded ;  and  we  raced  along 
the  hall  to  the  kitchen. 

"Bless  you,  children,"  was  the  greeting  of  Mrs.  Caine, 
"but  young  people  do  have  the  happy  time !" 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

IT  was  a  week  later  when  Winnie  came  home  with 
news  that  filled  me  with  mingled  relief  and  delight. 

"Do  you  believe  in  signs,  Frizzie?"  she  asked,  and  I 
laughingly  answered  in  the  negative.  "Well,  I  do,"  she 
continued.  "I  saw  a  white  horse,  and  at  the  same  time  a 
black  cat  crossed  the  street,  and  that  always  means  some- 
thing. I  think  it  means  you're  going  to  land  in  a  com- 
fortable spot,  and  I  kind  of  think  it  may  be  with  my 
friend,  Mrs.  Wroxley  Hall." 

"In  the  name  of  goodness,  who's  Mrs.  Wroxley  Hall  ?" 

"She's  a  newcomer  on  my  calling  list,  mother,"  re- 
sponded Winnie  with  mock  seriousness,  "one  of  the  most 
select  of  New  York's  old  aristocracy,  I'm  happy  to  say, 
and  a  widow  into  the  bargain." 

"Some  woman  you  met  through  a  man  in  the  restau- 
rant, I  suppose,"  commented  Mrs.  Caine. 

"You've  guessed  it  just  right,  mother,"  said  Winnie. 

"Well,  she's  not  up  to  much,  then,"  observed  Mrs. 
Caine.  "Any  man  that  runs  in  and  gulps  things  down  and 
runs  out  again,  as  I've  seen  them  in  those  quick-lunch 
places,  isn't  particular  about  the  company  he  keeps." 

"Well,  whether  they  gulp  or  not,"  said  Winnie,  "one 
of  them  had  time  to  stop  and  tell  me  that  Mrs.  Hall  wants 
a  companion,  and  wants  one  good  and  quick." 

"I  never  heard  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Mrs.  Caine. 
"How  could  you  and  any  man  get  talking  about  com- 

216 


IN  THE  CURRENT  217 

panions  for  old  women  ?  You  want  to  take  care  of  your- 
self, Winnie." 

"I  can't  begin  to  tell  just  how  it  came  about  or  just 
how  it  didn't,"  said  Winnie.  "It's  too  long  a  story,  but 
what  truth  is  in  it  Frizzie  herself  can  find  out  by  going 
and  calling  on  Mrs.  Hall  in  the  morning.  The  only 
question  is :  Does  Frizzie  want  to  go  ?" 

"Indeed,  I  do,  Winnie,"  I  replied;  and  the  following 
morning  I  went  up  the  brownstone  steps  to  Mrs.  Hall's 
residence,  in  the  Thirties,  four  doors  from  Fifth  Avenue, 
and  timidly  rang  the  bell.  A  maid  opened  the  door,  and 
led  me  into  a  long  narrow  parlor  to  the  right  of  the 
hall.  In  a  few  moments  I  heard  a  light  step,  and  I  arose 
from  a  chair  as  Mrs.  Hall  entered  with  a  gracious  smile. 

"Please  be  seated,"  she  said,  and  took  a  chair  near  me. 
"You  wish  to  become  my  companion,  is  that  it?" 

"I  should  like  very  much  to  be  your  companion,  Mrs. 
Hall,"  I  said,  "but  I  am  afraid  I  never  can  please  you. 
I  have  not  a  single  letter;  I  have  not  a  person  to  speak 
for  me,  and  that  is  necessary,  isn't  it  ?" 

"As  a  rule  it  is  most  necessary,"  she  replied,  "but  what 
gave  you  hope  to  come  to  me,  and  from  whom  did  you 
learn  I  was  seeking  a  companion?" 

I  paused  a  moment,  and  then  resolved  to  act  upon 
Winnie's  advice. 

"Mrs.  Hall,  if  you  read  the  newspapers  you  may  know 
who  I  am,"  I  said.  "I  was  engaged  to  be  married,  but 
ran  away,  and  the  newspapers  had  long  accounts." 

"I  think  I  remember,"  she  said.  "You  are  a  rector's 
daughter,  from  Long  Island,  are  you  not?" 

"Yes,  Mrs.  Hall;  my  father  is  the  Rev.  Dr.  Peabody, 
rector  of  Covey.  He  tried  to  make  me  marry  against 
my  will,  and  I  could  not  do  it  and  so  came  away." 

"But  you  have  not  told  how  you  heard  of  me?" 


2i8  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Winnie  Caine  told  me — the  girl  with  whom  I  am 
stopping,  Mrs.  Hall." 

"And  who  is  Winnie  Caine?" 

"She  is  a  girl  I  met  when  I  came  here,  and  who  has 
advised  me  and  taken  me  into  her  home,  and  been  like 
a  sister  to  me,  Mrs.  Hall." 

"She  has  been  a  very  good  friend  to  you,  and  you  are 
hoping  I  may  turn  out  to  be  the  same,  is  that  it?" 

"Yes,  yes,  Mrs.  Hall,"  I  said  eagerly.  "If  you  only 
give  me  a  chance  I  am  sure  I  shall  please  you." 

"And  if  I  should  decide  to  give  you  a  trial,  of  course 
you  would  inform  your  father  and  relieve  any  anxiety 
he  may  hold?" 

"Oh,  no,  Mrs.  Hall,  I  never  could  do  that;  I  do  not 
want  father  to  know." 

"Still,  you  could  not  wish  me  to  be  a  partner  in  your 
efforts  to  keep  away  from  him?" 

"I  never  thought  of  that,  Mrs.  Hall.  But  in  every- 
thing I  am  sure  I  have  had  right  and  justice  on  my 
side." 

"And  you  never  intend  to  soften  even  a  little?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mrs.  Hall;  father  has  not  sought  me, 
and  I  suppose  he  does  not  care." 

"Ah,  I  should  not  think  that  if  I  were  you,  Miss  Pea- 
body,"  she  said  with  a  strange  softness.  "You  cannot 
imagine  how  parents  feel  toward  their  children.  It  may 
be  your  father  has  remained  silent  and  not  attempted  to 
find  you  because  he  may  think  it  is  the  best  plan  to  bring 
you  back  to  him.  I  am  sure  a  father  never  would  wholly 
forsake  his  daughter  like  that." 

"You  don't  know  my  father,  Mrs.  Hall,  or  how  hard 
he  can  be,"  I  asserted,  and  she  smiled  at  me. 

"Well,  I  shall  do  nothing  to-day,  but  I  shall  think  it 
all  over,"  she  said.  "Give  me  your  address,  and  I  will 


IN  THE  CURRENT  219 

send  a  letter  to-morrow  with  my  decision  one  way  or 
the  other." 

She  accompanied  me  into  the  hall,  and  herself  opened 
the  door.  The  light  poured  in,  and  suddenly  she  laid 
her  hands  on  my  shoulders  and  turned  me  half  around. 

"Just  let  me  see  what  you  look  like,"  she  said,  to  my 
astonishment.  She  laughed  and  after  a  quick  searching 
look  released  me.  "I  have  a  great  faith  in  my  estimate 
of  faces,"  she  assured  me,  "and  please  do  not  think  it 
strange  or  rude  of  me." 

"I  judge  faces,  too,  Mrs.  Hall,"  I  said,  "and  I  like  your 
face." 

"You  have  the  perceptive  brow,"  she  laughed.  "Good- 
by.  To-morrow,  perhaps,  you  shall  know  what  I  think 
of  you." 

I  hurried  to  Mrs.  Caine  and  Stella,  and  we  three  were 
greatly  excited  until  Winnie  came  home.  Winnie  was 
too  matter-of-fact — I  must  say  that  against  her.  She 
was  always  throwing  cold  water  upon  me.  And  she  did 
not  share  our  excitement  in  the  slightest.  It  was  into 
her  hands  the  postman  delivered  the  all-important  letter, 
but  still  she  remained  exasperatingly  cool. 

"Open  it;  open  it!"  cried  Mrs.  Caine,  Stella  and  I  all 
together,  but  she  dropped  it  on  the  table  and  placed  her 
hand  firmly  upon  it. 

"Eeny  meeny  miney  mo,"  she  began,  despite  our  pro- 
tests. "Get  the  cards,  Stella,  and  we'll  cut  them.  I  bet 
it's  a  tall,  dark  man,  and  you're  going  across  water, 
Frizzie." 

"Please,  please,  open  it,  Winnie,"  I  pleaded,  and  she 
ran  her  finger  across  the  top  of  the  envelope. 

"Thank  heaven,  it's  not  the  nine  of  spades,"  she  said. 
"Listen  to  this :  'Dear  Miss  Peabody, — You  may  call 
again  to-morrow  afternoon  at  three  o'clock,  and  I  think 


220  IN  THE  CURRENT 

perhaps  we  may  reach  an  understanding.'  "  Winnie  threw 
the  letter  carelessly  back  on  the  table.  "I  wish  to  good- 
ness I  had  learned  French  and  a  few  other  languages," 
she  said.  "If  I  had,  that  letter  might  be  coming  to  me." 

"She  may  not  take  me,  Winnie,"  I  said. 

"Take  you?"  she  echoed.  "She  says  plain  she's  going 
to  have  you,  and  you  needn't  bother  your  head  one  bit 
more  about  it.  You  wouldn't  expect  her  to  put  herself 
down  plumb  and  square  on  paper,  would  you?" 

The  reason  for  Winnie's  complacency  was  made  known 
by  Mrs.  Hall  when  I  called  as  she  had  directed.  She 
received  me  with  much  warmth. 

"Before  you  come  into  my  home,"  she  said,  "you  must 
know  I  was  fully  informed  beforehand  of  your  experi- 
ences. Winnie  was  here  two  days  ago,  and  told  me  all 
about  you." 

•"Winnie  was  here?"  I  exclaimed  in  bewilderment. 

"Yes,  and  she  is  a  wonderfully  persuasive  talker,"  said 
Mrs.  Hall  with  a  smile.  "She  asked  me  not  to  tell  you 
this,  but  I  insisted  I  should  tell  you  now.  That  much  is 
owing  to  Winnie  no  less  than  to  you,  and  I  am  sure  you 
never  will  find  a  more  loyal  friend  than  she  has  been." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Hall,"  I  cried,  "I  feel  so  helpless.  Every- 
body does  for  me  what  I  want  to  do  for  myself." 

"It  is  so  with  us  all,  Frizzie,"  said  Mrs.  Hall  tenderly. 
"That  is  one  reason  we  should  be  so  careful  in  the  choice 
of  our  friends.  Our  friends  are  the  expression  of  our- 
selves, and  had  you  been  other  than  you  are  perhaps  you 
would  not  have  given  Winnie  the  chance  to  help  you." 

For  all  that,  I  was  determined  to  take  Winnie  to  task. 
I  saw  her  that  evening.  I  tried  to  be  severe  with  her, 
but  she  pooh-poohed  me  out  of  it.  I  had  to  give  it  up; 
I  could  make  nothing  of  her,  and  I  leave  it  to  you  to 
circumvent  her  if  you  can. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

Now  we  all  are  going  to  take  a  great,  long  jump! 
One  mighty  spring  and  we  go  flying  over  twelve  whole 
months.  Autumn  has  gone,  winter  has  gone,  spring  has 
gone,  summer  is  going  fast — and  here  you  land  once 
more  with  Mrs.  Hall  and  I  in  the  parlor  of  the  brownstone 
residence,  in  the  Thirties,  four  doors  from  'Fifth  Avenue. 

I  have  learned  a  lot;  Mrs.  Hall  has  been  my  teacher. 
I  wish  you  could  meet  Mrs.  Hall  face  to  face.  I  am  sure 
you  would  like  her.  She  doesn't  believe  the  sun  loses 
color  every  day  when  it  leaves  Fifth  Avenue  in  the  shade. 
She  belongs  to  an  unobtrusive  little  circle,  that  values 
refinement  above  wealth.  She  dislikes  publicity ;  she  dis- 
likes display — but  I'm  not  going  to  pick  a  bone  with  the 
society  that  parades  itself.  Instead,  I'll  take  Mrs.  Hall's 
word  for  it  that  such  society  is  not  worth  picking  a  bone 
with,  and  pass  on. 

It  was  one  of  my  duties  to  sort  and  read  Mrs.  Hall's 
mail  to  her,  and  I  never  shall  forget  my  agitation  on  that 
particular  morning  when  I  opened  a  business-looking  let- 
ter and  saw  it  bore  the  signature  of  Daniel  Wesson.  Mrs. 
Hall  evidently  observed  my  emotion,  for  she  glanced  at 
the  letter  and  then  looked  at  me  curiously. 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  read  this  letter,  Mrs.  Hall?"  I 
asked. 

"Certainly,  Frizzie ;  read  them  all,"  she  replied. 

"Mrs.  Hall,"  I  said  with  much  gravity,  "we  have  not 

221 


222  IN  THE  CURRENT 

spoken  of  Roy  since  the  first  day  I  came  to  you  a  year 
ago,  and  this  letter  is  from  Roy's  father." 

"Perhaps,  I  should  have  told  you,"  she  said  evasively, 
"that  Mr.  Wesson  arranges  certain  investments  for  me." 

"But  this  is  not  a  business  letter,  Mrs.  Hall?" 

"Read  it,  Frizzie,  whatever  it  is." 

I  smoothed  out  the  paper,  and  in  shaking  voice  read : 

"DEAR  MRS.  HALL: 

"Unless  I  hear  from  you  to  the  contrary  I  shall  do  as 
you  suggest  and  come  up  to-morrow  afternoon.  I  be- 
lieve you  are  right,  and  that  it  may  be  best  to  talk  frankly 
and  honestly  to  Miss  Peabody.  From  all  you  have  told 
me  and  from  my  own  knowledge  I  have  become  convinced 
there  is  nothing  for  Roy  but  this  union,  and  I  heartily 
approve  of  it.  I  think  there  will  be  little  trouble  with 
Roy's  mother,  and  I  trust  there  will  be  no  objection  on 
the  part  of  Miss  Peabody  herself.  If  she  knew  the  feel- 
ing of  the  boy  towards  her  I  am  sure  all  would  be  well. 
Roy  is  keeping  his  promise  like  a  man. 
"Sincerely  yours, 

"DANIEL  WESSON." 

I  laid  the  letter  on  the  table.  "You  have  been  leading 
me  to  this  all  the  time,  Mrs.  Hall?"  I  asked,  feeling  I 
had  a  real  grievance. 

"No,  Frizzie,  I  have  not,"  she  replied,  "but  you  will 
see  Mr.  Wesson  when  he  comes  this  afternoon?" 

"I  won't,"  I  said  sharply. 

I  arose  and  went  over  to  the  window,  and  stood  there 
close  to  the  heavy  curtains,  looking  out  into  the  street 
and  nursing  anger.  Mrs.  Hall  came  up  behind  me  quietly, 
and  caught  my  hand. 

"Come  with  me,  Frizzie,"  she  said,  and  led  me  to  the 


IN  THE  CURRENT  223 

portrait  of  a  girl,  looking  out  at  us  from  a  gilded  frame, 
her  face  lighted  with  smiles. 

"What  is  it  you  wish,  Mrs.  Hall?"  I  asked  in  a  sub- 
dued voice. 

"You  see  that  portrait,  Frizzie.  That  was  a  girl  I 
knew.  Long,  long  ago  she  and  I  were  very  dear  friends. 
She  was  even  dearer  to  me  than  a  sister  or  a  mother. 
Will  you  believe  that?" 

"I  believe,  Mrs.  Hall,  but  where  is  the  girl  now?" 

"She  is  dead,"  was  her  answer. 

"Dead !"  I  repeated. 

"Yes,  dead,"  she  went  on.  "Before  you  were  born  to 
all  your  great  troubles,  Frizzie,  that  portrait  was  painted. 
And  the  girl  was  happy  then;  just  as  happy  or  happier 
than  you  see  her  there  before  you.  The  world  was  all 
golden  then.  You  know  what  I  mean — look  into  her 
eyes,  Frizzie,  and  you  will  see!  When  she  was  sitting 
for  that  portrait  she  confided  to  me  she  was  deeply  in 
love.  It  seemed  then  that  to  her  had  come  the  most 
wonderful  of  all  loves — every  love  is  the  most  wonderful, 
as  it  should  be — but  she  made  a  terrible,  terrible  mistake, 
and  she  died — with  me  the  only  one  knowing  the  secret." 

"I  could  cry  for  her,  Mrs.  Hall,"  I  said  in  my  droll 
way. 

"I  know  you  could,  Frizzie,  and  I  cry  for  her  some- 
times. But  not  as  often  as  I  did.  I  have  become  a  little 
resigned ;  but  all  that  is  left  is  a  memory,  and  that  is  not 
much,  is  it?" 

She  slipped  her  arm  around  me,  and  I  permitted  her 
to  take  me  close  to  her. 

"That  memory  is  a  great  deal,"  I  asserted  confidently. 

"I  suppose  it  is,"  she  added  reflectively,  "but,  Frizzie, 
you  would  never  guess — that  girl  has  her  arm  around 
you  now." 


224  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Hall,  I  understand,  I  understand;  and  you 
don't  want  me  to  make  the  same  mistake  ?" 

"That's  it,  Frizzie ;  I  don't  want  you  to  die  in  the  same 
way;  I  don't  want  you  to  live  to  let  yourself  become  a 
memory  like  that,  however  treasured  a  memory  it  may 
be." 

"I  don't  want  a  memory,  Mrs.  Hall,  but  what  shall  I 
do?  You  know  about  Roy,  and  how  could  I  ever — 
ever?" 

"Don't  think  of  Roy,  think  of  yourself,  Frizzie,"  said 
Mrs.  Hall.  "Why  have  you  been  growing  in  restlessness? 
Why  have  you  been  growing  in  discontent  these  last  few 
months?  Ah,  Frizzie,  if  I  know  anything  about  the 
feminine  heart  and  you  will  search  your  heart  I  think 
you  will  find  the  truth  there — and  the  truth  will  be  Roy." 

"I  can't ;  I  can't,  Mrs.  Hall,"  I  protested. 

"We  can't  expect  men  to  be  as  good  as  we  women  are, 
Frizzie ;  that  would  be  asking  too  much,"  she  said,  "and 
Roy,  despite  all  his  faults,  has  proved  himself  a  man,  just 
as  his  father  writes.  Not  for  six  months,  Frizzie,  has 
Roy  tasted  strong  drink,  and  it  is  the  thought  of  you  that 
has  been  his  strength." 

"Thought  of  me,  Mrs.  Hall?"  I  cried. 

"Yes,  you,  Frizzie,"  she  replied.  "It  was  on  the  promise 
of  seeing  you  at  the  end  of  six  months  that  he  stopped, 
and  the  six  months  are  up  now  and  he  says  he  has  found 
them  so  good  he  will  go  on  living  like  a  man.  Frizzie, 
you  have  been  living  for  a  memory,  and  so  has  Roy,  and 
both  of  you  should  thank  God  you  must  not  live  your 
fife  out  for  it.  You  won't  make  a  terrible  mistake  as  I 
did;  you  won't  deny  Roy,  now  tell  me  you  won't?" 

The  heart  in  me  seemed  shriveled  up  into  nothing,  or 
turned  into  tears  or  something,  and  I  just  broke  down. 
For  the  first  time  I  lost  my  self-control  before  Mrs.  Hall, 


IN  THE  CURRENT  225 

and  I  blubbered  away  in  robust  fashion.  I  must  say, 
however,  my  outburst  was  not  altogether  righteous,  for 
mingled  with  the  pious  impulses  were  bitter,  disappointed 
pangs  that  all  this  time  these  things  had  been  going  on 
without  me  knowing  them.  Finally  I  just  clamped  down 
my  feelings  with  my  will,  and  looked  resolutely  at  Mrs. 
Hall. 

"How  did  Mr.  Wesson  know  all  ?"  I  asked. 

"Roy  himself  told  him  everything,"  replied  Mrs.  Hall. 
"That  night — before  Roy  asked  you  to  marry  him,  Friz- 
zie — he  went  to  his  father  and  confessed,  and  Mr.  Wesson 
followed  him  and  was  waiting  outside  Winnie's." 

"He  saw  Roy  and  he  saw  Andrews  ?" 

"Yes,  and  he  was  here  one  day  and  happened  to  talk, 
and  I  remembered  what  I  had  read  in  the  newspapers, 
and  had  him  send  for  Winnie — and  well,  Frizzie,  you 
can  guess  the  rest." 

"You  did  that,  Mrs.  Hall?"  I  exclaimed  almost  in 
anger.  "You  and  Mr.  Wesson  and  Winnie  all  were  in 
a  conspiracy  against  me?  But  why  should  you  have 
been  interested  in  me,  Mrs.  Hall  ?" 

"Ay,  that  is  easily  answered,"  she  replied.  "What 
about  Roy?  Wasn't  it  necessary  to  think  of  him?" 

"If  you  said  plainly  you  didn't  do  it  for  me,  Mrs. 
Hall,  I  should  feel  relieved.  But  I  am  vexed  because 
of  all  this  work  by  other  people  in  my  behalf.  I  am  los- 
ing all  my  faith  in  myself.  There  is  nothing  I  can  do  to 
help  myself,  or  be  independent  as  I  wish  to  be.  Winnie 
helps  me,  Mr.  Wesson  helps  me,  you  help  me ;  ever  since 
I  came  to  New  York  it  has  been  the  same — somebody 
or  other  doing  the  things  I  should  be  doing,  working  for 
me  or  working  against  me,  and  all  without  my  consent." 

"Some  day  I  shall  sit  down  with  you,  Frizzie,  and  tell 
you  every  little  detail,  and  its  part  and  significance  in 


226  IN  THE  CURRENT 

the  story,"  said  Mrs.  Hall.  "But  not  to-day.  I  have  not 
had  time  to  get  it  in  perspective  yet,  and  I  am  sure  you 
are  in  the  same  fix.  At  first  Mr.  Wesson  was  thinking 
of  informing  your  father  where  you  were,  and  you  must 
admit  now,  Frizzie,  that  I  served  you  when  I  convinced 
him  of  the  futility  of  that?" 

"Yes,  you  did,  Mrs.  Hall,"  I  replied,  "but  there's  the 
other  side :  I  have  been  managed  by  you  all.  You  started 
with  the  intention  of  keeping  Roy  and  me  apart,  and 
when  Roy  grew  worse  and  worse  you  turned  to  me  in  the 
hope  of  saving  him.  Is  that  fair  to  me,  Mrs.  Hall  ?  And 
you  have  been  guiding  and  training  me,  treating  me  as 
if  I  were  your  own  daughter  almost,  so  that  if  Roy  and 
I  are  married  I  may  grace  his  millions?" 

"That  is  ungenerous  of  you,"  retorted  Mrs.  Hall  with 
some  severity.  "Had  I  seen  or  felt  Roy  had  passed  out 
of  your  life  that  would  have  been  the  end,  but  you  can- 
not say  that  Roy  has  passed  out  of  your  life!  Why, 
Frizzie,  I  have  seen  it  in  you  for  months  and  months; 
do  you  think  I  could  not  see  when  I  have  been  through 
it  all  myself?  It  is  not  what  any  of  us  have  done  for 
you,  but  what  you  have  done  for  yourself.  Can't  you 
reason  that  out?  The  whole  world  may  have  its  influ- 
ence upon  you,  but  it  remains  for  you  to  express  your- 
self. If  your  heart  doesn't  find  expression  in  Roy  and 
Roy's  heart  in  yours  then  all  I  can  say,  Frizzie,  is  that 
Mr.  Wesson  and  I  are  pathetically  and  criminally  stupid." 

A  smile  played  about  her  eyes,  and  I  was  forced  to 
smile  myself.  After  all,  what  was  there  to  be  grave  over? 
I  felt  like  shouting.  Anything  but  gravity! 

"You  will  see  Mr.  Wesson,  Frizzie?"  asked  the  per- 
sistent Mrs.  Hall. 

"Gladly,"  I  replied,  and  she  gave  me  a  mother's 
kiss. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

ROY'S  father  was  a  round,  pudgy  man.  His  cheeks 
were  florid  and  bulging;  his  mustache  was  bristling  and 
reddish,  against  the  tawny  color  of  his  hair.  His  eyes 
were  gray,  as  the  eyes  of  all  great  men  are  supposed  to 
be;  and  looked  straight  at  you  and  through  you.  He 
favored  clothes  of  startling  patterns ;  he  wore  thick-soled, 
square-toed  shoes ;  every  time  he  put  his  foot  down  he 
seemed  in  the  act  of  crushing  something.  The  floor  shook 
under  his  step.  His  hands  were  huge,  fat  and  hairy.  His 
waistcoat  from  top  to  bottom  stuck  out  aggressively  at 
the  world.  His  trousers  were  very  wide,  and  they  bagged 
at  the  knees,  so  that  when  he  walked  he  waddled.  When 
he  laughed  he  almost  bellowed ;  when  he  tried  to  restrain 
his  natural  boisterousness  he  showed  he  was  ill-at-ease. 
He  had  to  be  himself  or  nobody.  When  he  laughed  with 
you  or  roared  at  you  there  was  no  mistaking  his  sin- 
cerity; when  he  banged  the  table  with  his  fist  he  meant 
it;  when  he  said  he  was  your  friend  or  your  enemy  he 
meant  it  with  an  earnestness  of  which  you  could  not  en- 
tertain a  doubt.  But  the  trouble  with  Daniel  Wesson,  I 
found  out,  was  that  most  of  the  time  his  earnestness  was 
without  a  conscience. 

Quiet  and  an  atmosphere  of  repose  went  out  of  the 
room  when  he  came  in.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  Mr.  Wes- 
son was  one  of  those  men  who  carry  their  business  around 
with  them. 

"I  had  to  hustle  things  a  bit  in  the  office,  Mrs.  Hall," 

227 


228  IN  THE  CURRENT 

he  volunteered  as  he  entered,  "but  I'm  here  on  the 
minute.  Never  missed  an  engagement  by  a  half  a  second 
in  my  life.  Now  I  hope  you  have  arranged  our  little 
business  with  the  young  lady." 

"Here  is  Miss  Frizzie,"  said  Mrs.  Hall,  crossing  the 
room  to  me  near  the  window. 

"No  need  to  tell  me  that,"  said  Mr.  Wesson,  bustling 
over  and  holding  out  his  hand.  I  extended  my  hand 
timidly,  and  winced  as  he  took  my  fingers  in  a  hard  grip. 
"I  knew  you,  Miss  Frizzie,  as  soon  as  I  cast  eyes  on  you, 
and  I'll  say  I  don't  blame  Roy "  I  gave  an  involun- 
tary start  and  he  dropped  my  hand.  "Well,  maybe  now 
I  oughtn't  to  have  put  it  that  blunt,"  he  continued  after 
an  awkward  pause,  "but  anyway  you  know  what  I  was 
driving  at,  and  it's  the  truth." 

"Yes,  but  Frizzie  naturally  is  a  little  reserved,"  said 
Mrs.  Hall. 

"I  know;  I  know,"  responded  the  man,  "but  I  never 
was  much  for  ceremony.  You  know  that  of  me,  Mrs. 
Hall ;  I've  never  been  anything  on  this  bowing  and  scra- 
ping business;  with  me  it's  set  off  the  fireworks  without 
any  speech-making;  and  what  do  you  say,  Mrs.  Hall,  if 
we  just  let  the  whole  shooting-match  go  shebang  this 
minute  and  have  done  with  it?" 

"I  think  that  would  be  an  excellent  plan,"  said  Mrs. 
Hall. 

"What  do  you  say  yourself,  Miss  Frizzie?  Are  you 
for  prolonging  the  agony?" 

"No,  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  replied.  "I  wish  it  all  over  as 
soon  as  possible." 

"That's  doing  business,"  said  Mr.  Wesson,  rubbing  his 
hands  briskly.  "Now  the  decks  are  cleared  for  action; 
and  I'll  just  say,  Miss  Frizzie,  it's  become  one  of  my  pet 
objects  to  see  you  my  son's  wife." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  229 

I  quailed  under  his  brutal  frankness,  and  looked  ap- 
pealingly  at  Mrs.  Hall. 

"Now  don't  go  misunderstanding  me,  Miss  Frizzie; 
when  I've  got  a  thing  to  say  I  say  it,  and  then  nobody's 
wondering  what's  on  my  mind  or  what  isn't.  There's 
nothing  to  be  gained  by  beating  around  the  bush,  and 
keeping  people  on  hot  coals  of  suspense." 

I  could  not  help  laughing  at  Mr.  Wesson's  flowery 
brand  of  speech;  Mrs.  Hall  smiled  in  real  amusement, 
and  the  man's  fat  sides  shook  in  mirth. 

"There's  nothing  like  a  good  laugh  for  breaking  the 
ice,"  went  on  the  irresistible  Mr.  Wesson.  "But  that's 
past,  and  as  I  was  about  to  say,  Miss  Frizzie,  I  think 
you  and  Roy  would  make  a  right  smart,  handsome 
couple." 

"Mr.  Wesson,"  I  interposed,  "does  your  son  know  of 
your  coming  to  me?" 

"If  he  did  and  he  let  me  come  I  wouldn't  ask  you  to  be 
his  wife,"  he  replied.  "No,  he  doesn't;  and  you're  never 
going  to  tell  him  the  big  fool  I've  made  of  myself,  either. 
It's  just  this  way,  Miss  Frizzie,  I  don't  want  to  let  Roy 
meet  you  until  I  feel  a  sort  of  surety  down  in  this  old 
heart  of  mine.  I  have  a  heart,  though  you  mightn't 
think  it.  You  see,  it's  better  to  keep  a  check  on  Roy 
than  to  give  him  a  free  rein.  Things  have  moved  along 
pretty  smoothly  for  the  last  half  year  or  so.  Mrs.  Hall 
has  told  you  how  we  all  knew  most  everything  about 
you,  and  it's  worked  out  not  altogether  bad  keeping  you 
and  Roy  apart."  He  stopped  short,  and  his  breast  rose 
and  fell  in  a  ponderous  sigh. 

"This  is  a  hanged  long  speech  for  me,  Miss  Frizzie, 
I'll  guarantee  that,  but  I'll  worry  through  with  it.  Now 
there's  no  use  my  trying  to  pull  wool  over  your  eyes  and 
say  Roy  hasn't  had  a  fondness  for  a  drop  too  much.  I 


23o  IN  THE  CURRENT 

wouldn't  put  you  wrong  on  that  if  I  could,  but  the  boy's 
got  over  all  that.  I  made  him  swear  he'd  stop  it  six 
months  ago ;  for  six  months  after  we  took  you  away  from 
him,  Miss  Frizzie,  he  went  a  pace  that  you  couldn't  call 
ordinary,  but  he  took  a  vow  and  he's  kept  it,  and  keep- 
ing it  feels  so  good  he's  going  to  keep  on  with  it.  How's 
that?  Roy's  as  clean  a  cut  fellow  this  minute  as  any 
young  woman  would  want  to  meet,  and  you'll  be  proud 
of  him,  Miss  Frizzie,  and  I'll  be  proud  of  you  both. 
How's  that  for  an  old  chap  like  me?" 

"I  am  delighted  to  hear  about  Roy,  Mr.  Wesson,"  I 
said. 

"Of  course  you  are ;  we're  all  delighted,  and  you'll  see 
him  if  he  comes?" 

"No,  Mr.  Wesson." 

"Ah,  Miss  Frizzie,  you  said  that  with  a  blush.  I 
wouldn't  give  a  red  cent  of  my  money  for  a  girl  that 
can't  blush.  Blushes  are  what  we  old  folks  admire  most, 
isn't  that  so,  Mrs.  Hall?" 

"I  believe  so,"  said  Mrs.  Hall,  with  a  sigh  of  resigna- 
tion that  was  not  lost  upon  Mr.  Wesson. 

"Well,  there  I've  gone  and  put  my  foot  in  it  again — 
talking  of  you  and  me,  Mrs.  Hall,  as  old  folks.  Excuse 
me,  Mrs.  Hall,  I  leave  you  out  of  it.  But  to  get  back 
to  this  affair;  you  may  have  guessed,  Miss  Frizzie,  I'm 
not  much  of  a  hand  when  it  comes  to  settling  up  a  deli- 
cate job  of  this  sort.  If  it  was  anything  in  the  way  of 
a  stock  deal,  or  a  turn  at  cards,  or  laying  a  wager  on  the 
fine  points  of  a  horse,  I'd  be  right  at  home,  and  all  would 
be  fair  sailing.  But  on  this  transaction — why,  do  you 
know,  Miss  Frizzie,  I'm  so  afraid  of  you  I'm  afraid  to 
stop  talking?  What  will  you  say  to  me?  Will  you  tell 
me  I'm  an  old  fool  and  order  me  out  of  here?  I  wouldn't 
blame  you  if  you  did.  But  I'll  tell  you  this,  Miss  Frizzie : 


IN  THE  CURRENT  231 

If  I  ever  get  out  of  this  mess  alive  I'll  never  tackle  an- 
other such  job.  It  was  easy  enough  to  propose  for  my- 
self, but  proposing  for  another  man,  even  for  your  own 
son — excuse  me !  But  there's  just  one  other  word  I  want 
to  run  in  here,  Miss  Frizzie :  You'll  see  Roy  ?" 

"No,  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  said,  "I  think  it  is  better  for 
Roy  and  better  for  me  that  we  go  on  just  as  we  are  now." 

"Make  sure  that  you  mean  that,  Frizzie,"  advised  Mrs. 
Hall. 

"Here  now,  here  now;  this  will  never  do  at  all,"  con- 
tinued Mr.  Wesson.  "I'll  tell  you  what  we'll  do,  Miss 
Frizzie.  Roy's  out  in  the  street  in  the  automobile.  If 
he  knew  you  were  here  he'd  break  down  the  door  to  get 
in,  and  I'll  just  run  down  and  send  him  up.  What  do 
you  say  to  that?" 

"Mr.  Wesson,  Mr.  Wesson,  you  won't!"  I  cried,  as 
he  started  toward  the  door. 

"Oh,  yes  I  will,  Miss  Frizzie,"  he  sent  back  from  the 
hall.  "I  ought  to  have  sent  Roy  in  the  first  place." 

"Frizzie,"  said  Mrs.  Hall  coming  to  me,  "I  will  wait 
upstairs,  and  you  do  what  your  heart  tells  you — you  will, 
won't  you?" 

"I  don't  know,  Mrs.  Hall,"  I  exclaimed,  "but  you 
mustn't  leave  me.  I  can't  face  him  alone." 

"I  wouldn't  be  so  mean  as  to  stay,"  said  Mrs.  Hall  with 
a  smile,  and  she  gave  me  a  quick  kiss  and  almost  ran 
from  me. 

I  heard  a  footstep  in  the  hall,  and  Roy  came  into  the 
doorway. 

"Frizzie!"  he  exclaimed,  and  stood  silent  and  motion- 
less. 

"Roy !  Roy !"  I  cried,  impulsively  starting  forward  only 
to  check  myself  and  stand  tense  and  motionless  as  he. 

I  confess  now  I  often  had  pictured  such  a  meeting,  and 


232  IN  THE  CURRENT 

always  my  fancy  had  told  me  it  would  be  attended  by 
wonderful  eloquence.  But  here  was  the  meeting  at  last, 
and  the  extent  of  our  vocabularies  were  two  words  that 
must  mean  the  veriest  commonplaces  to  all  save  ourselves. 
Yet  volumes  could  not  mean  more  than  they  meant  to 
Roy  and  to  me.  I  ask  soberly,  are  there  not  times  when 
speech  fails  as  a  vehicle  for  our  thoughts?  If  you  have 
been  blessed  with  my  experience,  you  will  understand. 
If  not,  pray  that  some  day  you  may  know.  Roy  ?  Friend, 
reader,  can  you  substitute  a  name  and  in  it  sum  up  all 
your  life,  or  all  eternity? 

But  I  am  wandering  now,  or  is  it  that  I  am  dreaming? 
Perhaps  the  influence  of  that  meeting  still  rests  upon  me, 
or  drives  this  pen  at  a  foolish  tangent.  I'll  quit  this 
business  of  moralizing,  and  strive  to  be  practical.  I'll 
go  on  with  my  story,  and  let  you  know  that  for  a  full 
minute  we  stood  there  in  suspense,  and  then — then  the 
strain  was  broken  in  the  only  way  possible.  We  ran  to 
each  other's  arms.  Yes,  we  did — just  like  every  other 
couple  since  Romance  began.  For  the  life  of  me,  I  can- 
not remember  what  we  said  after  that.  I  have  a  hazy 
recollection  that  Roy  spoke  about  our  having  been  treated 
as  if  we  were  children,  but  apart  from  that  the  minutes 
we  spent  sifted  like  a  dream.  Could  it  be  that  those  min- 
utes were  too  delicious,  or  sacred,  or  whatever  you  call 
it,  to  be  tangible? 

I  came  to  myself  when  I  heard  Roy,  in  the  hall,  call 
his  father.  I  felt  a  tremor  of  nervousness,  but  my  happi- 
ness soon  overcame  it.  I  ran  to  the  stairs,  and  saw  Mrs. 
Hall  peeking  down  from  the  second  floor. 

"I  heard  Roy  call  his  father,  Frizzie,"  she  said  by  way 
of  excuse,  and  I  laughed  at  her  womanly  curiosity. 

"Come  down,  come  down,  Mrs.  Hall,"  I  exclaimed. 
"There's  news — good  news." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  233 

If  Mrs.  Hall  ever  was  in  danger  of  becoming  excited 
it  was  right  at  that  moment.  She  hurried  down,  beam- 
ing, gave  me  a  hug  and  a  kiss,  then  cast  me  off  quickly. 
Mr.  Wesson  was  just  entering  the  house,  and  she  caught 
him  by  both  hands. 

"All  the  credit  belongs  to  me,"  she  said  in  unconcealed 
elation. 

"I  know  that,  Mrs.  Hall;  if  you  hadn't  laid  the  wires 
just  right  in  the  last  six  months  my  bungling  in  the  last 
twenty  minutes  would  have  spoiled  the  whole  shooting- 
match,"  laughed  Mr.  Wesson.  "But  here,  let  me  see  my 
new  daughter." 

"Father,  you're "  Roy  had  said  when  the  big,  good- 
natured  man  cut  him  off. 

"I  know,  I  know,  Roy,  my  lad.  I'm  anticipating  a 
bit,  but  what  of  that ?  What  of  that,  begad?  Come  over 
here,  my  girl,  where  I  can  get  a  full  look  at  you." 

I  followed  him  close  to  the  window.  He  caught  both 
sides  of  my  head  in  his  great,  strong  hands  and  up- 
turned my  face. 

"You're  a  bonny  lass,"  he  said.  "You'll  be  the  making 
of  that  young  scamp  of  a  boy  of  mine.  If  it  wasn't  that 
I'm  such  an  ugly  old  codger  I'd  plant  a  kiss  on  your 
pretty  lips  right  this  minute." 

"I'll  kiss  you,  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  burst  out  impulsively, 
and  springing  up  I  gave  him  a  genuine  smack.  No  sooner 
had  I  done  it  than  I  was  ashamed  and  afraid  of  my  rash- 
ness and  audacity. 

"I'm  sorry  I  did  that,  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  said  meekly. 

"Haw,  haw !  Sorry  ?  Be  as  glad  about  it  as  I  am,  and 
only  do  it  again!  That's  just  what  I  want  of  every 
daughter  of  mine.  Nance  used  to  do  it  until  that  French 
count  came  along  and  she  got  aristocratic  notions.  May 
might  do  it  now  if  she  wasn't  so  much  for  that  Women's 


234  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Rights  business.  Never  you  mind,  Frizzie;  you  just  keep 
on  as  you've  begun  and  I'll  show  you  how  your  new, 
old  father  can  love  you." 

He  drove  his  hands  deep  into  his  pockets,  and  shook 
his  wide  shoulders. 

"But  here,  that's  not  what  I  want  to  know — when's  this 
wedding  going  to  be  pulled  off?  I'm  all  worked  up  over 
it  already.  There's  some  enthusiasm  left  in  the  old  man 
yet,  Mrs.  Hall.  All  the  heart  in  me  hasn't  been  ground 
out  on  that  Wall  Street  treadmill." 

He  stepped  up  to  Roy  and  slapped  him  vigorously  on 
the  back. 

"Don't  stand  there  like  a  stick,  Roy.  Wake  up;  say 
something.  Ask  Mrs.  Hall  to  tell  you  about  the  muddle 
I  made  of  it  when  I  stole  your  proxy,  and  tried  to  elect 
president,  secretary,  treasurer  and  the  whole  board  of 
directors  right  off  the  reel — one,  two,  three.  Wake  up, 
I  say !  You've  been  going  around  in  a  poke  for  the  last 
year  or  so,  and  now  that  you've  got  Frizzie  why  don't 
you  start  in  and  dance.  Dance,  man,  dance !" 

"That  would  not  be  dignified,  father,"  said  Roy,  with 
a  sly  glance  in  my  direction. 

"Do  you  hear  that,  all  of  you?"  demanded  Mr.  Wesson. 
"Dignified?  Dignified?  Who's  got  any  use  for  dignity? 
Dignity's  too  high  a  horse  for  me  ever  to  ride.  Stop  it, 
Roy.  Be  natural.  Be  a  boy ;  be  a  boy.  I  wouldn't  cross 
my  fingers  for  a  man  who's  not  a  boy  when  he's  won  the 
girl  he's  got  his  heart  set  on." 

So  Mr.  Wesson  ran  on  in  his  gay  spirits,  until  Mrs. 
Hall  quietly  asserted  herself.  He  was  for  telephoning 
word  of  the  engagement  forthwith  to  the  newspapers. 
Further  he  was  for  sending  a  telegram  on  the  spot  to 
father. 

"The  newspapers  are  going  to  rehash  that  old  story 


IN  THE  CURRENT  235 

about  Frizzie's  quick  start  from  Covey,"  he  said,  "and 
the  sooner  we  have  it  over  with  the  better.  Dr.  Peabody 
ought  to  know  about  this ;  he  ought  to  be  asked  up  here, 
so  that  he  and  I  can  have  a  confidential  chat." 

"No,  Mr.  Wesson,"  said  Mrs.  Hall.  "In  the  first  place, 
I  do  not  wish  it  and  a  few  days  will  not  make  a  great 
difference." 

"That's  a  new  tack  for  you  to  take,  Mrs.  Hall,"  said 
Mr.  Wesson,  "but  I  never  ask  a  woman  a  reason  for  any- 
thing, and,  anyway,  it's  you  that  holds  the  reins,  Mrs. 
Hall.  I'm  not  going  to  try  again  to  do  the  driving.  If 
Roy  and  Frizzie  are  willing,  then  I'm  willing.  But  how 
would  it  do  to  have  the  wedding  sudden-like  and  all  to 
ourselves?  That  would  clear  me  of  the  job  of  getting 
Mrs.  Wesson  into  line,  and  you  ought  to  be  ready  to  help 
me  duck  that,  Mrs.  Hall." 

"If  you  please,  Mr.  Wesson,  it  shall  be  as  I  propose," 
said  Mrs.  Hall  with  a  positiveness  that,  in  the  end,  carried 
the  day. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

I  KNOW  that,  by  all  the  rules  of  "best-selling"  romance, 
happiness  should  have  rested  upon  the  engagement  of 
Roy  and  me.  Wedding  bells  should  have  pealed  in  tune ; 
orange  blossoms  should  not  have  dropped  a  single  petal. 
But  I  won't  shirk  my  responsibility.  I'm  not  a  taffy 
heroine.  This  is  an  unvarnished  record,  and  so  let  the 
truth  be  told ! 

Mrs.  Wesson  was  not  pleased;  she  insisted  upon  stir- 
ring up  a  fuss,  and  she  was  quieted  neither  by  her  hus- 
band nor  Roy.  It  was  her  daughter  May  who  poured 
oil  on  troubled  waters ;  it  was  May  who  mollified  the  vain 
woman's  disappointment.  I  found  May  to  be  a  very 
sensible  young  person,  practical  and  independent,  just 
as  Roy  had  told  me.  She  took  her  mother  in  hand,  and 
in  contrast  with  the  sorry  failure  of  both  Mr.  Wesson 
and  Roy,  met  little  difficulty  in  persuading  her  that  a 
marriage  for  love  was  to  be  desired  infinitely  more  than 
a  marriage  for  social  position. 

Mrs.  Wesson  was  a  business  woman  by  instinct;  it 
was  second  nature  for  her  to  be  perpetually  striking  bal- 
ances. She  never  credited  anything  to  profit  and  loss. 
She  knew  what  it  was  to  struggle ;  although  trying  hard 
to  forget  the  uphill  fight  of  the  first  few  years  of  her  mar- 
ried life,  she  was  unable  to  put  the  effect  of  them  entirely 
behind  her.  Her  heart  was  big  and  soft,  but  she  had 
fallen  into  the  habit  of  caring  more  for  the  opinion  of 
others  than  for  her  own.  She  was  a  good  but  deluded 

236 


IN  THE   CURRENT  237 

woman.  She  placed  superlative  values  upon  false,  worth- 
less things ;  she  shut  her  eyes  against  the  things  which 
were  real.  It  had  been  said  of  Mrs.  Wesson  that  she 
once  wore  diamonds  to  breakfast,  but  I  never  could  lead 
myself  to  believe  that  cruel  report  of  her.  True,  she 
looked  out  of  her  element  at  all  times,  and  never  more 
|o  than  when  ponderously  serious  in  lace-bedraggled  eve- 
ning gown,  and  arrayed  with  jewels  like  a  Tiffany  win- 
dow. The  sight  of  her  on  such  gala  occasions  cured  me 
of  one  form  of  incipient  selfishness.  If  I  ever  grow  old 
I  avow  I  shall  donate  my  jewels  to  charity  rather  than 
retain  them  to  sully  the  jeweled  dignity  of  a  full  measure 
of  years !  Old  women,  particularly  fat  old  women,  should 
not  wear  jewels.  For  proof,  witness  the  capacious,  cum- 
bersome Mrs.  Wesson  offering  herself  as  a  bas-relief  in 
precious  stones. 

It  was  a  week  before  Mrs.  Wesson  expressed  a  wish  to 
meet  me.  Mrs.  Hall  invited  the  family  to  dinner,  and  the 
recollection  still  is  very  vivid  with  me  how  Mrs.  Wesson 
arrived  that  night.  She  was  nervous  and  flushed;  to  be 
quite  frank  it  seemed  to  me  she  was  on  the  verge  of 
perspiration.  Mrs.  Hall  had  an  instinctive  feeling  for 
stage  effects,  and  she  had  me  stand  in  front  of  a  blazing 
grate,  where  shaded  candles  on  the  mantelpiece  shone 
over  my  shoulders  and  around  my  head  in  a  soft,  mellow 
light.  She  was  very  emphatic  with  her  instructions. 

"You  must  not  move,  nor  betray  the  slightest  anxiety 
to  rush  to  her.  Understand,  Frizzie.  Mrs.  Wesson  is 
emotional,  and  is  not  impressed  by  emotional  people." 

Mrs.  Wesson  entered  briskly;  when  she  saw  me  she 
raised  her  stubby,  chubby  arms  with  a  quick  little  gasp. 
May  was  close  behind,  towering  a  full  head  above  her. 
It  was  a  moment  filled  with  suspense,  and  as  usual  Mrs. 
Hall  took  the  initiative.  She  did  not  speak.  She  simply 


23  8  IN  THE  CURRENT 

caught  Mrs.  Wesson  gently  by  the  hand  and  led  her  to 
me.  The  good  woman  did  not  seem  conscious  of  Mrs. 
Hall's  presence.  She  looked  up  at  me  with  tear-filled 
eyes.  Two  great,  round  drops  edged  out  of  the  corners 
and  ran  a  close  race  down  her  cheeks,  until  she  picked 
them  off  with  the  end  of  a  white-gloved  finger.  She 
emitted  a  plaintive  little  wail,  and  reached  up  and  patted 
me  on  the  shoulder. 

"I  could  forgive  you  anything,"  she  said  between  sobs. 
"You  are  just  like  the  ideal  I  have  always  dreamed  of 
for  Roy." 

"I  am  very  glad  of  that,"  I  replied  awkwardly. 

"Oh,  dear;  to  think  you  and  Roy  could  become  en- 
gaged without  taking  his  mother  into  your  confidence! 
But  my  mother's  heart  is  big  enough  to  forgive  you  both." 

"Ho !  Ho !  That  sounds  well  coming  from  you,  Mary," 
rolled  out  Mr.  Wesson,  bustling  into  the  room.  "Remem- 
ber how  you  and  I  got  married?  Just  ran  off  without 
telling  a  soul,  and  look  at  us — thirty  years  gone  by  and 
the  happiest  old  pair  I  know!" 

"I'm  thinking  of  that,  Daniel,"  replied  his  wife,  smil- 
ing. "Maybe,  after  all,  we  don't  know  what's  best  for 
the  young  folk.  We're  getting  old-fashioned,  I  suppose." 

"That's  just  it,"  agreed  Mr.  Wesson.  "We've  got  to 
take  a  back  seat  and  watch  the  young  people  frolic  in  the 
limelight.  But  say,  where's  Roy?" 

"Here  I  am,  father,"  said  Roy  bashfully,  from  a  posi- 
tion near  the  door. 

"I  can  see  you're  there  all  right,  my  son,  but  why  don't 
you  spruce  up  and  assert  yourself?  You're  the  dullest 
engaged  mortal  I've  seen  in  my  time.  Come  to  the  front 
here,  man,  and  share  the  honors  with  Frizzie." 

Roy  stepped  forward  timidly. 

"That's   more  like  it,   boy,"    continued    Mr.    Wesson 


IN  THE  CURRENT  239 

cheerily.  "Mrs.  Hall,  when  are  we  to  make  this  bit  of 
information  known  to  everybody?  Now  that  Mrs.  Wes- 
son's one  of  us  I  can't  keep  it  a  minute  longer.  I  want 
to  get  out  and  talk  and  shout  about  it.  That's  the  way 
I  feel.  You  know,  I've  only  got  my  one  boy,  and  no  won- 
der I'm  a  trifle  giddy-headed." 

"Just  a  few  days  more,  Mr.  Wesson  ?"  said  Mrs.  Hall. 

"You'll  excuse  me,  Mrs.  Hall,  but  I'll  be  hanged  if  this 
isn't  too  much,"  exploded  Mr.  Wesson.  "How  now — 
why — what  for  should  this  be  held  secret  another  minute  ? 
It  looks  funny  to  me.  Supposing  somebody  finds  out? 
Supposing  one  of  the  servants  here  puts  two  and  two  to- 
gether and  gives  it  out?  That  would  be  like  handing  it 
on  a  gold  plate  to  the  newspapers,  wouldn't  it?" 

I  saw  Mrs.  Hall's  face  set  in  determination.  "It  must 
not  be,  Mr.  Wesson/'  she  said,  "not  for  a  few  days  at 
least." 

"Why  not;  why  not,  Mrs.  Hall?"  asked  Mr.  Wesson. 

"Because  it  is  Frizzie's  wish,"  replied  Mrs.  Hall. 

All  eyes  were  turned  upon  me.  I  could  not  conceal 
surprise,  for  Mrs.  Hall  had  not  spoken  beforehand. 

"It  is  your  wish,  Frizzie?"  she  questioned. 

"If  you  say  so,  Mrs.  Hall,  it  is  my  wish,"  I  replied,  not 
helping  her  in  the  slightest. 

"That  doesn't  go  with  me  at  all,"  boomed  Mr.  Wesson. 
"Let's  out  with  it.  It's  got  to  be  told  some  time  or  other, 
and  no  time  like  the  present.  That  old  story's  all  to 
Frizzie's  credit,  anyway,  and  I'm  not  afraid  of  it.  I  never 
did  care  a  fig  for  the  newspapers.  I'm  ready,  and  you're 
ready,  Mary?" 

"I'm  prepared  for  it,  Daniel,"  said  Mrs.  Wesson,  in  a 
tone  weighted  with  resignation. 

"And  you  Roy,  my  boy?" 

"I  have  wished  it  from  the  start,  father." 


24o  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"And  you  May?" 

"I'm  sure  anything  will  suit  me,"  was  May's  prompt 
reply. 

"And  you  object,  Frizzie,  only  because  Mrs.  Hall  ob- 
jects?" 

"Yes,  Mr.  Wesson." 

"You're  overruled,  Mrs.  Hall." 

"It  must  not  be,"  said  Mrs.  Hall  imperatively  and  with 
some  show  of  irritation.  Then  for  the  first  time  since 
I  had  known  her  she  betrayed  embarrassment.  Her  con- 
fusion grew  until  her  face  was  almost  a  deep  red.  Even 
Mr.  Wesson  had  the  instinctive  delicacy  to  remain  silent. 

"If  Frizzie  does  not  object,"  she  said  at  length,  "I  do, 
if  I  may.  Please  don't  ask  me  why.  I  have  a  reason." 

Her  confidence  was  returning,  and  Mr.  Wesson  was 
kind  enough  to  say,  in  his  emphatic  fashion : 

"There  won't  be  another  word  about  it,  Mrs.  Hall. 
Your  advice  has  been  good  enough  for  me,  and  we'll  all 
follow  you  to  the  end.  Isn't  that  the  way  to  do  it,  Roy, 
my  lad?" 

He  banged  Roy  heartily  on  the  back,  and  smoothed 
everything  with  a  deep-rolling  laugh  and  the  suggestion : 
"Let's  all  eat,  drink  and  be  merry !" 

We  went  into  dinner,  and  I  was  elated  and  proud  and 
supremely  happy.  Even  Mr.  Wesson's  repeated  injunc- 
tion :  "  'Ware  of  the  wine,  Roy,"  did  not  cast  the  slightest 
shadow  over  my  real,  positive  bliss. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

Now  I  am  going  to  shatter  your  illusions ;  I  am  going 
to  knock  down  the  idol  we  have  raised  together.  I  shrink 
from  revealing  the  awful  truth,  still,  why  should  I? 
Surely,  it  was  harder  on  me  than  it  ever  can  be  on  you. 

I  soon  came  to  realize  the  reason  for  Mr.  Wesson's  de- 
sire for  a  hasty  wedding.  More  than  that,  I  soon  grew 
to  suspect  Mr.  Wesson's  motives.  I  found  that  Roy  had 
kept  his  promise  only  in  part.  He  was  slipping  back,  and 
I  was  forced  to  the  belief  his  father  had  turned  to  me  as 
the  only  means  of  saving  him. 

Mr.  Wesson  deceived  Mrs.  Hall,  and  he  deceived  me. 
There  was  method  in  his  strange  actions ;  there  was  a  plan 
behind  his  unusual  talkativeness.  But  if  he  was  to  blame, 
what  of  Roy?  On  that  it  is  only  possible  for  me  to  ask 
the  question:  Can  we  women  ever  reason  where  our 
hearts  are  concerned  ? 

Roy  called  one  afternoon  and  I  saw  the  telltale  evi- 
dence in  his  face.  Mrs.  Hall  saw  it  too,  and  the  shock 
to  her  was  so  great  she  hurriedly  left  the  room.  I  was 
silent  in  a  feeling  of  shame.  Roy  tried  in  vain  for  several 
minutes  to  draw  me  into  conversation.  Finally  he  real- 
ized what  my  silence  meant,  and  he  walked  over  and  stood 
before  my  chair. 

"You  know  I  have  been  drinking,  Frizzie?" 

"Yes,  Roy." 

"It's  the  last  time,  Frizzie.  I  swear  to  you — I  swear  to 
you  on  my  honor  again!  Don't  look  at  me  that  way, 

241 


242  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Frizzle.  It  was  Andrews.  We  ran  into  each  other  by 
accident.  He  asked  my  forgiveness  for  everything  he'd 
tried  to  do  to  me,  and  I  forgave  him — I  felt  so  confound- 
edly happy,  Frizzie,  I  forgave  him.  He  didn't  know  the 
reason  for  my  happiness,  and  it  was  a  joke  to  keep  it 
from  him.  Now,  do  you  blame  a  fellow?  Andrews 
wasn't  half  a  bad  sort;  we  had  a  lot  of  good  times  to- 
gether. But  that  wasn't  it  especially.  We  hadn't  spoken 
since  that  night — that  night  when  he  dared  to  come  to 
Winnie's  and  acted  so — and,  hang  it  all,  I  just  did  it  be- 
cause I  thought  when  a  man's  going  to  get  married  he 
doesn't  want  any  enemies.  Answer  me  that,  Frizzie: 
Now,  does  he?" 

"I  am  sure  not,  Roy." 

"Then  you  don't  hold  it  against  me.  I  said  on  my 
honor  it's  the  last  time — on  my  honor  as  a  gentleman." 

Impossible  as  it  may  seem,  I  was  won  to  a  little  re- 
newed faith.  But  Roy  was  weaker  than  he  knew,  and  day 
by  day  I  saw  that  Mrs.  Hall  was  reading  the  truth  of  my 
grave  face.  Still  she  did  not  speak,  but  with  firmness 
she  opposed  all  of  Mr.  Wesson's  impatience  for  a  wed- 
ding. I  began  to  wonder  what  manner  of  man  I  was 
dealing  with.  He  came  in  one  evening. 

"This  wedding's  got  to  be  pulled  off  pretty  soon,"  he 
said,  clapping  his  hands  together.  "I've  got  to  go  West, 
and  I  want  to  see  you  and  Roy  off  to  Europe  before  I 
start.  The  labor  unions  are  up  to  their  usual  tricks ; 
they've  closed  down  a  mine  on  me,  and  you  can  imagine 
how  I  want  to  get  out  there  in  the  thick  of  the  fighting." 

I  decided  there  and  then  it  was  time  to  speak  frankly. 
I  called  Mrs.  Hall  downstairs,  and  she  entered  the  room 
apparently  prepared  for  what  was  to  follow.  I  thought 
also  Mr.  Wesson  knew  the  storm  was  about  to  break.  He 
set  himself  with  his  broad  back  against  the  mantelpiece. 


IN  THE   CURRENT  243 

"What  is  it,  Frizzie?"  asked  Mrs.  Hall,  putting  the 
issue  squarely  before  us. 

"I  wish  you  to  hear  with  Mr.  Wesson  that  my  engage- 
ment to  Roy  is  broken,"  I  said  bravely,  and  an  ominous 
silence  fell. 

Against  my  seriousness  just  then  was  a  wayward  im- 
pulse to  laugh.  In  the  situation  there  was  to  me  an  ele- 
ment of  the  ridiculous.  It  was  like  a  repetition  of  an 
old  story.  And  so  it  was.  It  was  a  revival  of  a  comedy 
or  a  tragedy,  as  you  care  to  take  it,  with  a  new  cast.  I 
was  the  leading  woman  as  in  the  first  production,  but 
even  I  was  a  new  player ! 

It  took  Mr.  Wesson  some  time  to  catch  his  breath. 
"What!"  he  shouted  at  last.  "You  won't  marry  Roy? 
What  do  you  think  of  that  for  a  good  joke,  Mrs.  Hall  ?" 

"I  have  expected  it,"  said  Mrs.  Hall  very  quietly. 

"You  expected  it?"  thundered  the  man.  "What  am  I 
up  against?  Tell  me,  one  or  the  other  of  you?  You 
know  I'm  apoplectic,  Mrs.  Hall?" 

"I  don't  think  you  are  surprised,"  said  Mrs.  Hall  with 
spirit. 

"I  tell  you  I  never  got  such  a  surprise  in  my  life. 
What's  the  meaning  of  this?  Who  put  you  up  to  this, 
Frizzie?" 

"I  have  decided  for  myself,  Mr.  Wesson." 

"You  have,  eh  ?  What  do  you  say  to  this :  The  news- 
papers know  of  the  engagement;  I  telephoned  to  them 
all.  There'll  be  reporters  up  here." 

I  was  unmoved.  I  did  not  care  for  that.  I  was  almost 
glad.  I  often  had  thought  of  the  excitement  it  would 
mean  when  the  news  reached  the  public.  I  had  come  to 
know  that  the  New  York  newspapers  love  a  millionaire's 
romance  as  dearly  as  a  millionaire's  divorce,  and  I  was 


244  IN  THE  CURRENT 

keen  for  it.  But  Mrs.  Hall  was  not  anxious  for  any  news- 
paper sensation. 

"If  you  have  done  that,  Mr.  Wesson,  you  have  broken 
faith  with  all  of  us,"  she  said  sharply. 

"Oh,  come  now;  come  now,  Mrs.  Hall,  that  isn't  the 
way  to  talk,"  retorted  Mr.  Wesson.  "You  can't  go  back 
on  me  now.  It's  you  that's  got  to  shoulder  the  responsi- 
bility for  this — if  there's  any  responsibility  to  shoulder. 
If  it  hadn't  been  for  you  I  would  have  held  Roy  off, 
and  he  would  have  got  over  it  like  every  man  does.  It 
only  takes  twelve  months  at  the  most  to  clear  a  man's 
head  of  any  girl,  and  Roy  had  traveled  six  of  them.  If 
it  hadn't  been  for  you,  Mrs.  Hall,  the  boy  would  have 
reeled  off  the  twelve  by  this  time,  and  he  would  have  been 
all  right  and  ready  for  any  old  game." 

"You  know  differently,"  said  Mrs.  Hall  with  much 
emphasis. 

"All  I  know  is  that  I'm  going  to  stick  by  Roy,"  re- 
torted Mr.  Wesson. 

"I,  too,  tried  to  stick  to  him,  Mr.  Wesson,"  said  Mrs. 
Hall,  "but  Roy  has  not  proved  worthy  of  my  trust." 

"Ho,  so  you've  come  out  of  ambush,  Mrs.  Hall !" 

"Yes,  if  that  is  what  you  call  it,  Mr.  Wesson.  I 
thought  I  was  helping  both  Frizzie  and  Roy  to  happi- 
ness, but  I  was  wrong  and  I  will  not  stoop  to  deceit." 

"That's  a  neat  way  to  put  it,  Mrs.  Hall,  I  must  say," 
replied  Mr.  Wesson.  "If  you  think  that,  I  don't,  and  it's 
not  fair  to  intimate  that  I'm  up  to  a  deceitful  game.  I've 
never  done  that,  and  you  know  it,  Mrs.  Hall;  I've  been 
free  and  aboveboard  always,  and  every  dollar  I've  got 
is  a  clean  dollar — just  as  clean  as  the  way  I'm  standing 
by  Roy  and  Frizzie  in  this  business." 

"That  is  the  mistake  you  make,"  said  Mrs.  Hall,  "and 
I  will  not  have  'business'  applied  to  Frizzie." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  245 

"Ho!  you  want  me  to  trade  in  romance  and  sentiment 
and  all  that  sort  of  gush,  is  that  it?  None  of  that  rub- 
bish for  me.  You're  old  enough  to  know  better,  Mrs. 
Hall.  It's  not  romance  I'm  looking  for  for  Roy;  it's  a 
wife." 

"You  are  not,"  said  Mrs.  Hall  emphatically. 

"Maybe  you  know  better  than  I  do  myself,  Mrs.  Hall?" 

"I  think  I  do,"  she  replied.  "I  think  there  is  no  more 
doubt  that  you  are  looking  for  some  one  to  save  Roy  from 
drink." 

Mr.  Wesson  grew  white  with  anger. 

"I'm  not  used  to  having  my  motives  questioned  like 
that,"  he  thundered.  "If  it  was  anybody  but  you,  Mrs. 
Hall,  I  wouldn't  stand  for  it — not  for  a  minute.  You're 
ringing  changes  too  fast  on  this  case  to  suit  me.  You're 
accusing  my  son  of  being  a  drunkard." 

"I  am  sorry  if  you  interpret  it  so,"  said  Mrs.  Hall. 
"I  am  sorry  it  has  come  to  an  ending  like  this,  and  I 
trust  you  realize  that  further  talk  of  continuing  the  en- 
gagement is  not  only  distasteful  but  impossible." 

"I  won't  stand  to  be  dictated  to  by  you,  Mrs.  Hall," 
raged  Mr.  Wesson.  "What  does  the  girl  say  herself? 
What  do  you  say,  Frizzie?" 

"I  cannot;  I  cannot,"  I  said.  "Roy  was  here  to-day 
and  he  had  been  drinking." 

"Think  it  over,  my  girl,'  said  Mr.  Wesson,  his  voice 
falling.  "Think  it  over.  What's  a  glass  of  liquor?  I'll 
confess  Roy  is  not  a  teetotaler,  but  I'm  not,  and  drink's 
never  made  a  slave  of  me.  Not  one  man  in  a  hundred 
is  a  teetotaler,  either.  Roy  will  never  be  worse  than  he 
is  now;  it's  a  thousand  to  one  he'll  be  better.  I've  seen 
hundreds  a  sight  worse  than  he  is  straighten  up  and 
stiffen  their  knees  after  marrying.  You  don't  want  a 
man,  Frizzie,  that's  never  broken  away  from  his  mother's 


246  IN  THE  CURRENT 

apron-strings.  Roy's  had  his  fling;  every  man's  going 
to  have  his  fling,  and  it  comes  better  before  marriage  than 
after  it."  , 

"I  cannot;  I  cannot,  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  repeated  in  great 
distress. 

"Frizzie  will  not  be  a  sacrifice,  Mr.  Wesson,"  said 
Mrs.  Hall.  "Roy  himself  should  not  ask  it." 

"It's  not  Roy  asks  it ;  it  is  I,"  said  Mr.  Wesson.  "And 
who's  making  the  sacrifice?  Roy  could  marry  ten  mil- 
lions before  this  time  to-morrow  ?" 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wesson,  don't  say  that,"  I  pleaded. 

"I  will  say  it,  my  girl;  it's  only  to  your  credit.  It's 
to  Roy's  credit.  It's  to  Mrs.  Hall's  credit.  It's  to  my 
credit.  It's  to  the  credit  of  all  of  us.  Mrs.  Hall  herself 
can't  say  I've  been  mercenary!" 

"No,  I  cannot  say  that,"  said  Mrs.  Hall,  "but  it  is  not 
that  question  we  are  dealing  with.  It's  not  a  question  of 
money,  but  a  question  of  Roy's  strength,  or  Roy's  weak- 
ness." 

"You  can't  stop  it  now,  that's  all,"  said  Mr.  Wesson. 
"The  papers  will  be  full  of  it;  they'll  be  on  the  street  in 
an  hour  or  two.  It  would  be  fine  for  all  of  us  if  they 
came  out  in  another  hour  with  the  news  it's  all  off.  That 
would  be  a  sweet  mouthful  for  those  Park  Row  scaven- 
gers, wouldn't  it?" 

"Frizzie  will  face  it,"  said  Mrs.  Hall,  "and  I  will  help 
her." 

"They'll  have  reporters  down  to  Covey,  and  they'll  take 
interviews  with  your  father  and  young  Clark.  Do  you 
want  that  ?  It'll  be  bad  enough  when  they  let  their  imag- 
ination run  riot  with  Frizzie's  leaving  home  and  with  what 
she's  been  doing  since,  without  making  it  ten  times  worse 
by  piling  another  broken  engagement  on  top  of  it.  You've 
got  to  think  of  my  family,  too,  Mrs.  Hall." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  247 

"Frizzie,  have  you  the  slightest  desire  this  moment  to 
marry  Roy?"  asked  Mrs.  Hall. 

"There's  the  question  put  straight  and  square,"  inter- 
posed Mr.  Wesson.  "Now,  we'll  have  an  end  of  all 
foolishness,  and  I  know  what  it  will  be ;  yes,  I  know." 

"I  will  not,  Mrs.  Hall ;  I  will  not,  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  said, 
and  for  the  life  of  me  could  not  utter  another  word. 

In  vain  Mr.  Wesson  tried  to  shake  me.  He  argued, 
pleaded,  begged;  he  pounded  the  table  with  his  clenched 
fist ;  he  stamped  to  and  fro ;  at  last,  ended  with  a  bitter 
threat  against  Mrs.  Hall. 

"I've  run  your  money  into  a  decent-enough  pile,"  he 
shouted,  "and  I've  got  my  hands  on  it  yet,  Mrs.  Hall.  I'll 
give  it  back  to  you,  and  then  I'll  break  you  as  easy  as  I 
made  you — if  you  don't  stop  with  this.  I've  switched 
around  before  for  less  than  this,  and  I'll  switch  now,  by 
God,  if  you  don't  get  sense  into  your  head." 

"I  am  not  afraid,"  said  Mrs.  Hall. 

"What  kind  of  a  woman  are  you?"  asked  Mr.  Wes- 
son. "You're  not  afraid,  eh?  You  don't  think  I'm  in 
earnest,  eh?  Well,  I  am;  and  you  look  out.  When 
Daniel  Wesson  puts  his  shoulder  to  the  wheel  it'll  go 
round  or  it'll  break.  Now  I'm  going  away  from  here, 
but  I'm  coming  back.  Yes,  I'm  coming  back;  in  an 
hour  I'll  be  here  and  Roy  will  be  with  me  and  we'll  see 
how  this  thing's  coming  out." 

He  went  away  without  another  word,  grabbing  his 
hat,  and  pounding  in  furious  determination  down  the 
steps  to  the  street. 

"Do  you  think  Mr.  Wesson  would  dare  to  harm  you, 
<Mrs.  Hall?"  I  asked  fearfully. 

"No,  no,"  she  replied.  "Mr.  Wesson  never  would  talk 
like  that  if  he  did  not  know  in  his  heart  that  all  the  odds 
are  against  him." 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

TRUE  to  his  word  Mr.  Wesson  returned  within  the 
hour ;  and  with  him  came  Mrs.  Wesson  and  May  and  Roy. 
Mrs.  Wesson  entered  first,  and  flopped  down  heavily  into 
an  armchair.  May  followed  her  mother  closely,  her  face 
unusually  grave,  and  placed  herself  beside  the  mantel- 
piece. Mr.  Wesson  half  pushed  Roy  to  the  middle  of  the 
room. 

"Here's  the  culprit,"  he  said,  attempting  jollity. 

"Don't  do  that,  father,"  rebuked  Roy  peevishly. 

"Now  what's  wrong  with  the  boy?"  asked  Mr.  Wes- 
son. 

"Nothing's  wrong,  father,"  retorted  Roy,  "only  I  want 
to  be  left  alone,  and  not  handled  roughly  like  that." 

May  Wesson  saw  as  I  saw,  and  her  heart  went  out  in 
sympathy.  She  went  to  Roy  and  placed  her  hand  affec- 
tionately upon  his  shoulder.  "Never  mind,  Roy,  what- 
ever happens  you  and  I  will  stick  together." 

"What's  the  meaning,  sister  ?"  asked  Roy.  "Of  course, 
we'll  stick  together;  we've  always  stuck  together." 

Mrs.  Wesson,  with  difficulty,  half-straightened  up  in 
the  arm-chair.  "I  can't  see  why  there  should  be  any  dif- 
ference of  opinion,"  she  said  placidly.  "I  thought  it  was 
all  arranged." 

"So  did  I,"  said  Mr.  Wesson. 

"And  so  did  I,"  said  Roy,  "but  Frizzie's  got  more  sense 
than  all  of  us  put  together.  You  may  blame  her,  father, 
but  I  don't ;  upon  my  word,  I  don't !" 

248 


IN  THE  CURRENT  249 

"Is  that  the  gratitude  I  am  to  expect  from  you,  sir?" 
said  Mr.  Wesson.  "Go  into  the  other  room  and  wait 
there  till  I  send  for  you." 

Roy  seemed  inclined  to  bid  defiance.  But  after  a  mo- 
ment's hesitation  he  laughed  aloud. 

"I  guess  I  won't  rear  on  my  hind  legs,  dad.  You've 
got  your  riding  clothes  on,  haven't  you?  Not  a  word 
now;  not  a  word.  I'll  go;  I'll  obey  you — I'll  clear  out, 
dad,  and  leave  you  to  get  such  a  whipping  as  you  never 
got  down  in  the  Street." 

Roy  walked  unsteadily  to  the  door  leading  back  to  the 
dining-room,  and  turned  with  his  hand  on  the  handle. 

"There's  no  one  wiser  to  Wall  Street  than  you,  dad, 
but  there's  lots  of  things  Wall  Street  doesn't  know.  Just 
keep  that  in  mind,  dad,  and  just  call  me  when  you're 
whipped  good  and  proper — I  want  to  see  how  you  look 
when  the  lash  has  been  laid  on  you  a  few  times.  So  long, 
dad,"  and  Roy  swung  the  door  with  a  bang  behind  him. 

"Where  did  Roy  ever  hear  such  a  vulgarism  as  'good 
and  proper'?"  asked  Mrs.  Wesson,  but  no  heed  was  paid 
to  her. 

"Well,  Frizzie,"  began  Mr.  Wesson,  "it's  come  to  a 
showdown,  and  I'll  play  fair.  My  hand's  not  very 
strong,  and  I'll  only  play  it  for  just  what  it's  worth.  First 
of  all,  I'll  clear  up  a  point.  There's  nothing  like  the 
truth,  and  I  did  try  to  deceive  you  and  Mrs.  Hall.  No- 
body knows  about  the  engagement,  and  that  was  a  bluff. 
I  was  thinking  I  could  have  telephoned  to  the  newspapers 
when  I  left  here  and  neither  of  you  would  have  been  a 
bit  the  wiser,  but  I'm  going  to  be  on  the  level.  If  it 
wasn't  for  that  I  wouldn't  have  come  back  as  I  said  I 
would.  If  I  was  for  going  on  dealing  from  the  bottom 
of  the  pack  I  would  have  waited  until  Roy  sobered  up. 
You  see  him  now,  and  you  see  how  square  I  am  with  you. 


25o  IN  THE  CURRENT 

He's  not  drunk;  he's  never  been  what  you  could  call 
downright  drunk,  but  he's  been  drinking.  He's  got  the 
smell  of  it  on  him " 

"Why,  Daniel,  what  are  you  saying?"  asked  Mrs.  Wes- 
son half-rising  in  astonishment. 

"Mary,  you  must  be  silent,"  commanded  Mr.  Wesson, 
and  his  wife  dropped  back  again.  "I  did  wrong.  I  ought 
to  have  taken  you  into  my  confidence,  Frizzie.  I  ought 
to  have  confided  in  Mrs.  Hall.  But  Mrs.  Hall  and  I  did 
talk;  we  thought  Roy  would  hold  himself  up,  and  then 
we  made  plans  together.  He  held  himself  up  for  a  while ; 
when  he  began  to  slip  again  I  tried  to  keep  it  quiet.  I 
did  what  I  thought  was  best.  Roy's  my  only  boy.  When 
it  comes  down  to  it,  what  else  is  there  in  the  world  for 
me  but  what  lies  before  him  ?" 

"You  have  two  daughters,  Daniel,"  said  Mrs.  Wesson. 

"Will  you  please  let  me  speak,  Mary?"  asked  her  hus- 
band sternly.  May  crossed  the  room,  and  put  her  arm 
around  her  mother's  neck.  "It's  all  right,  mother,"  she 
said  soothingly.  "We  shall  both  listen  quietly." 

"I  bungled  everything,"  continued  Mr.  Wesson,  "but 
I  did  it  for  Roy's  sake.  The  boy's  different  to  me.  If 
he'd  put  himself  down  to  work  in  the  office  there  would 
have  been  no  trouble,  and  all  his  mother's  ambitions  for 
him  would  have  been  realized." 

"My  ambitions,  Daniel!" 

"Hush,  hush,  mother,"  said  May,  drawing  her  mother's 
head  close  to  her  shoulder. 

"There's  not  a  better  boy  in  the  world,"  said  Mr.  Wes- 
son, not  minding  the  interruption,  "and,  Frizzie,  I'll  say 
you're  the  only  girl  I've  ever  known  I'd  trust  him  to." 

There  was  a  silence,  and  I  asked  myself,  was  there  a 
heart  in  Mr.  Wesson,  after  all? 

"It's  plain  to  see  how  I  stood,"  he  went  on.    "Roy  was 


IN  THE  CURRENT  251 

getting  away  from  me.  I  couldn't  hold  him.  His  mother 
brought  scores  of  girls  to  the  house,  but  he  was  only 
polite  to  them." 

"You  mustn't  say  that,  Daniel,"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Wes- 
son. 

"I  will  say  it,"  replied  her  husband.  "There's  got  to 
be  an  understanding  before  we  go  any  further.  It's  got 
to  be  known  why  I've  been  so  set  on  this.  It's  not  usual 
to  insist  as  I've  been  insisting,  when  a  young  lady  puts 
her  foot  down  as  Frizzie  has  hers.  I  want  it  to  be  known, 
and  no  mistake  about  it,  that  Frizzie's  the  only  one  who 
ever  has  interested  Roy;  and  if  he's  ever  going  to  pull 
up  and  make  a  man  of  himself  you've  got  to  marry  him, 
Frizzie." 

"Daniel,  I  won't  listen  to  such  talk,"  interposed  Mrs. 
Wesson.  "One  would  think  my  son " 

"Mary!"  said  Mr.  Wesson  imperatively,  and  she  sub- 
sided. He  leaned  across  a  low,  round  table  toward  me. 
"You've  got  to  marry  him,  Frizzie,  if  he's  ever  going  to 
amount  to  anything.  I  don't  ask  you  to  sacrifice  your- 
self, as  Mrs.  Hall  was  saying.  The  boy  only  wants  some- 
body to  steer  him.  He's  a  boy  any  girl  might  be  proud 
of;  he's  got  more  and  finer  brains  than  I've  got.  1 
can't  manage  him  and  his  mother  can't.  He's  got  to  have 
some  one  like  himself,  some  one  that's  got  his  imagination 
and  that's  stronger  than  he  is,  or  he'll  go  down.  If  he 
hadn't  any  imagination,  and  wasn't  always  living  with  his 
head  in  the  clouds,  he  wouldn't  be  thinking  of  you,  Friz- 
zie ;  he'd  be  content  to  marry  money ;  he'd  be  blinded  by 
the  glamour  of  the  thing  they  call  society,  but  as  it  is  he 
sees  that  society's  all  shoddy  and  a  yard  wide.  Do  you 
know  what  I  mean,  Frizzie?" 

"I  think  I  do,  Mr.  Wesson,"  I  replied. 

'"You  know  I'm  selfish  only  to  see  my  boy  happy  and 


252  IN  THE  CURRENT 

a  credit  to  my  name?"  he  continued.  "Of  course,  I'm 
selfish — Roy  is  my  son.  But  I'm  not  asking  you  to  throw 
your  life  away,  Frizzie.  I've  seen  all  along  that  you  can 
wind  him  around  your  finger;  he's  one  of  the  men  that 
only  one  woman  can  influence,  and  it's  up  to  you,  Friz- 
zie. I'd  lay  a  million  dollars  he'll  be  a  man  when  he's 
got  something  to  live  for.  You  don't  believe  that,  Friz- 
zie? Well,  I'll  tell  you  something:  I  was  the  same  my- 
self when  I  was  Roy's  age,  and  you  see  me  now." 

"What's  that,  Daniel  ?"  asked  Mrs.  Wesson. 

"You  never  knew,  Mary,"  he  answered.  "When  you 
met  me  I'd  put  the  brakes  on,  and  I've  never  had  any 
trouble  about  it  since.  It  will  be  the  same  with  Roy. 
When  he  feels  solid  ground  under  his  feet  he'll  brace  up. 
Now  tell  me  what  you're  thinking,  Frizzie?" 

He  was  motionless,  looking  intently  at  me.  I  looked  at 
Mrs.  Hall,  but  her  face  did  not  relax  its  seriousness. 

"I'm  waiting  for  your  answer,  Frizzie,"  said  Mr.  Wes- 
son, but  it  was  destined  that  an  answer  never  should  be 
required  of  me. 

Roy  burst  into  the  room,  kicking  the  door  wide  open 
before  him. 

"Here  I  am,"  he  shouted  ironically,  and  in  a  voice  that 
chilled  me.  "Here  I  am,  ready  for  the  wedding."  He 
reeled  to  the  small  round  table,  and  gripped  it  so  stren- 
uously that  a  vase  went  in  pieces  to  the  floor.  "So,  father, 
you  see  what  it's  come  to,"  he  called,  as  we  looked  at  him 
in  horror.  "I  got  a  decanter  in  there,  and  I  emptied  it. 
I  got  a  paste-pot  in  there,  and  I  had  a  sheaf  of  bills  in 
my  pocket,  and  look  at  me !" 

Not  a  word  was  spoken.  The  only  sound  was  a 
strained  cry  of  affright  from  Mrs.  Wesson. 

"Look  at  me,  dad!"  cried  Roy.  "Look  at  me!  I'm 
your  work.  I'm  decorated  in  the  colors  you  like  best — 


IN  THE  CURRENT  253 

green  and  yellow,  they're  your  colors,  dad!  Say  you 
like  me;  say  I'm  pretty.  I've  got  your  money  all  over 
me — look  at  me !  Money's  the  sign  of  the  cross  for  me ! 
I've  got  yellowbacks  and  greenbacks  plastered  all  over 
me — five-dollar,  ten-dollar,  twenty-dollar,  and  fifty-dollar 
bills — and  all  of  them  from  you,  dad." 

He  reeled  close  to  his  father. 

"Look,  dad ;  don't  you  admire  me  ?  Don't  you  admire 
the  work  of  art  you've  made  of  me?  How  do  I  look  in 
the  Joseph's  coat  you've  given  me?  Don't  you  think  I'm 
a  great  artist?  I  didn't  need  to  look  in  the  mirror  in  the 
back  of  the  sideboard  in  there — I  could  have  stuck  them 
on  in  the  dark.  I  could,  dad — I  can  tell  money  with  my 
eyes  shut!  Look  at  this,  dad — my  dad!  I've  got  four 
fifties  on  my  hair  for  a  cap.  Oh,  they're  not  a  cap ;  they're 
a  crown — a  crown  of  money,  dad !  Ha,  ha !  You  never 
thought  what  my  imagination  was  equal  to.  You  have  no 
imagination,  dad.  Look  at  the  twenties  on  my  cheeks. 
Look  at  the  twenty  laid  square  across  my  forehead — 
that's  Cain's  mark,  dad !  Just  think  of  it — a  twenty-dol- 
lar bill  for  Cain's  mark  on  my  forehead !  Well,  it  serves, 
doesn't  it?  Look  on  my  shoulders  and  on  my  chest  and 
on  my  sleeves  and  on  my  hands — all  money !  Oh,  it  was 
fun  sticking  them  on.  I  was  for  having  a  bonfire  on  the 
dining-room  table  first ;  I  was  for  bringing  you  in,  dad, 
and  showing  you  the  ashes  and  saying  they  were  the 
ashes  of  the  life  you  gave  me — but  that  wouldn't  have 
been  half  the  fun  this  is;  there's  no  fun  in  being  melo- 
dramatic. And,  dad,  do  you  know  how  I  got  these  five- 
dollar  bills  on  the  backs  of  my  hands  ?  Oh,  that  was  fine 
— I  plastered  them  flat  with  the  brush  and  I  rolled  my 
hands  on  them  on  the  table,  dad, — on  the  table!  You 
like  me  looking  this  way,  don't  you?  Money  on  my 
hands  and  my  arms  and  my  shoulders  and  my  chest  and 


254  IN  THE  CURRENT 

my  head  and  my  forehead  and  my  cheeks — on  my  cheeks ! 
Smite  me  on  the  right  cheek,  dad,  and  I'll  turn  the  left 
cheek  for  you  to  smite  again.  Isn't  tl^at  what  the  Bible 
says?  Yes,  that's  what  the  Bible  says,  but  it  isn't  what 
you've  been  telling  me  since  I  was  knee  high,  dad.  No, 
it  isn't ;  you've  been  telling  me  to  smite  you  on  the  pocket- 
book,  and  I've  done  it  and  now  you've  got  to  pay,  dad; 
you've  got  to  pay." 

Roy's  eyes  were  staring,  his  whole  appearance  was  ter- 
rifying. Across  his  breast  the  bills  were  laid  on  two 
deep.  Mr.  Wesson  was  the  first  to  recover  from  the 
shock.  He  faced  his  son  aggressively. 

"You've  got  to  come  home  with  me,  Roy,  and  at  once," 
he  said. 

"That's  the  first  time  you've  ever  said  that  to  me,  dad," 
railed  Roy.  "Where's  home?" 

"You  must  not  say  another  word,  sir,"  ordered  Mr. 
Wesson. 

"What!"  cried  Roy.  "Not  talk?  Who  said  that? 
Was  it  my  own  father  ?  I  thought  he  wanted  to  hear  me 
talk;  I  thought  I  couldn't  talk  enough  to  please  him;  I 
thought  I  had  to  show  him  how  smart  I  am.  Oh,  no,  dad, 
you  won't  stop  me  talking  now.  Do  you  hear  that — you 
won't!  It's  harvest-time  now,  dad;  the  liquor  you  in- 
vested in  is  coming  back  to  you  with  interest.  Say,  dad, 
will  you  ever  take  me  on  your  knee  again  and  let  me 
sip  the  last  drops  out  of  your  cocktail  glass?  You  re- 
member you  used  to  do  that,  and  laugh  and  tell  mother 
there  never  was  a  Wesson  disgraced  himself  by  too  much 
drinking.  But  that's  past;  you've  disgraced  the  line  in 
me,  dad.  That's  what  you've  done.  You're  getting  it 
now  for  the  free  hand  you  gave  me.  The  chickens  have 
come  home  to  roost ;  that's  what  it  amounts  to,  dad." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  255 

"You  must  come  with  me,  Roy,"  said  his  father  in  a 
placating  tone. 

"I'll  never  go  with  you,  dad;  I'll  go  with  mother." 

Mrs.  Wesson  emitted  a  sharp  cry  of  pain,  and  Roy 
looked  at  her. 

"I'll  go  with  you  mother — mother,  that's  always  been 
so  gentle  and  generous  with  me,  and  that's  never  believed 
her  boy  could  do  wrong.  We  will  go  together,  mother, 
won't  we  ?  You've  been  an  easy  mother ;  never  let  father 
cross  me  or  box  my  ears  or  anything  like  that ;  never  got 
up  in  your  indignation  when  he  held  a  cocktail  glass  to 
my  lips ;  never  made  me  do  anything  I  didn't  want  to  do ! 
You've  been  a  loving  mother  to  me  always." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that,  Roy,"  said  Mrs.  Wes- 
son, and  with  anguish  in  her  voice,  added:  "But  Roy, 
Roy,  I  never  trained  you  to  this !" 

"Trained,  mother!  Trained!  That's  rich— but,  of 
course!  You  and  father  trained  me,  mother;  yes,  yes, 
you  did,  you  trained  me  up  in  the  way  I  should  go !" 

He  went  to  her  chair  and  put  his  hands  on  her  gray 
hair. 

"But  it's  not  you  that's  to  blame,  mother;  no,  no,  it's 
not  you.  It's  father;  it's  father  that's  got  to  pay  the 
piper." 

Mr.  Wesson  crossed  over  and  took  his  son  firmly  by 
the  arm. 

"You'll  come  with  me,  Roy ;  you'll  come  straight  to  the 
automobile  and  home." 

Roy  wrenched  himself  free. 

"There's  one  thing  first,"  he  cried. 

He  came  before  me  and  took  me  by  both  hands. 

"Frizzie,  look  at  me,"  he  said,  but  I  had  not  courage 
to  raise  my  head.  "Look  up,  Frizzie,"  he  commanded, 
and  I  slowly  raised  my  eyes  to  his.  "Thank  God^,  Friz- 


256  IN  THE  CURRENT 

zie,  it's  stopped  short  at  this.  You're  worth  a  hundred 
of  me.  Go  back  to  Norman  Clark.  He's  worth  a  thou- 
sand of  me.  I've  been  a  cad  to  you  always." 

"No,  Roy,"  I  said. 

"Oh,  yes,  I  have,"  he  continued.  "I've  been  a  cad  to 
you,  but  it's  all  over  now,  Frizzie,  and  I  only  want  you 
to  remember  one  thing:  The  cad  in  me  was  my  money. 
It  was  money  pulled  me  down.  Money  always  got  the 
better  of  me.  I  thought  I  could  fight  against  it,  but  I 
couldn't.  You  remember  that  day  on  the  knoll,  Frizzie? 
You  remember?  When  we  saw  Neptune  in  the  sea,  and 
the  waves  and  the  sun  danced  for  us,  and  the  breeze  whis- 
pered mysteries  into  our  ears,  and  we  launched  a  shell  for 
a  ship,  and  we  hoisted  an  ostrich  feather  for  a  sail,  and 
sped  away  together  in  quest  of  a  magical  realm?  Of 
course,  of  course,  you  remember !  Well,  that  was  the  real 
Roy.  That  was  the  Roy  who  might  stand  before  you 
now,  if  I  was  not  my  father's  son.  Good-by,  Frizzie." 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  my  right  hand. 

"Good-by,  Frizzie,"  he  repeated,  and  drew  away  leaving 
me  standing  helpless  and  forlorn. 

"You  will  go  now,  Roy?"  asked  his  father. 

"Sure  I'll  go;  but  I'll  go  with  mother  and  with  May. 
Where's  May?" 

"I'm  here,  Roy,"  said  the  girl  stepping  forward. 

Mrs.  Wesson,  sobbing  bitterly,  walked  toward  the  door 
and  May  joined  her.  Mr.  Wesson  again  took  his  son 
by  the  arm,  and  Roy  looked  at  him  curiously. 

"So  you're  determined  about  it,  dad,  as  you're  deter- 
mined about  everything  you  try,"  said  Roy.  "But  there 
are  some  things  you  can't  do,  aren't  there?  But  go 
ahead ;  have  your  way  with  me ;  lead  me  out  of  here." 

Father  and  son  followed  Mrs.  Wesson  and  May  out 
into  the  hall.  There  Roy  looked  back.  With  his  free 


IN  THE  CURRENT  257 

hand  he  tore  at  the  money  on  his  coat,  and  sent  a  few 
crumpled  pieces  to  my  feet. 

"Take  them  as  mementos,  Frizzie,"  he  shouted,  as  his 
father  dragged  him  away.  "Take  them — take  them,"  his 
voice  came  back,  "How  could  I  build  castles  in  the  air 
out  of  stuff  like  that?" 

Mrs.  Hall  came  up  quietly  and  led  me  to  the  portrait 
of  herself  as  a  girl,  smiling  at  us  out  of  the  gold  frame. 

"You!  You!"  said  Mrs.  Hall,  addressing  the  picture 
in  a  voice  that  held  as  much  tenderness  as  reproof.  "It 
was  you  influenced  us  to  all  this!" 

She  looked  at  me. 

"Frizzie,  Frizzie?"  she  asked.  "Dare  we  ever  again 
smile  like  the  girl  up  there  in  the  picture?" 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  I  cried.  "We  will  smile  now, 
Mrs.  Hall!" 

"Of  course!"  she  exclaimed  gladly,  and  there  the  two 
of  us  stood  and  not  only  smiled  but  laughed.  For  there's 
laughter  with  tears  in  it. 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

WITH  some  misgiving  I  went  the  following  evening 
to  call  on  Winnie,  and  she  received  me  coldly  at  the  head 
of  the  stairs.  Not  so  Mrs.  Caine,  whom  I  found  in  the 
parlor  crying  as  if  her  heart  were  broken. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Caine,  what  is  wrong?"  I  asked. 

"Haven't  you  heard,  Frizzie?"  she  lamented.  "Poor 
little  Dot;  poor  little " 

"Come  now,  mother,  don't  be  so  sudden,"  interposed 
Winnie.  "You  know  you  promised  you  would  get  over 
it." 

"Yes,  I  know  I-  promised,  Winnie ;  but  how  can  any- 
body forget?" 

"Life's  going  to  be  awful  dismal  if  you  keep  this  up, 
mother;  and  how  are  Frizzie  and  I  going  to  talk  here 
with  you  in  misery  that  way?" 

"I  won't  bother  you,  Winnie;  I'll  go  back  and  watch 
the  stew  on  the  fire.  You  tell  her,  Winnie,  and  then  both 
of  you  come  back  and  talk  to  a  poor  old  woman." 

"We  will,  Mrs.  Caine,"  I  said  sympathetically,  and  I 
could  hear  her  sob  as  she  went  along  the  hall. 

"Tell  me,  tell  me,   Winnie?"   I   demanded. 

"Dot's  dead,"  she  replied  bluntly. 

"And  Stella— what  of  her?" 

"Stella's  gone  back  to  Andy  Thorne." 

"She  hasn't  done  that!"  I  protested. 

"Yes,  she  has.  They  were  married  again  when  they 
came  back  from  the  funeral." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  259 

"I  do  hope  they  will  be  happy  now,  Winnie." 

"Happy!  I  hope  so,  too." 

The  girl  sat  down,  and  made  a  gesture  as  if  in  resig- 
nation. 

"You  haven't  been  here  for  three  months?  Where 
were  you?  A  lot  you  care  about  us,  but  I  thought  it 
would  be  that  way.  Well,  no  matter;  what's  the  differ- 
ence? One  friend  or  enemy  more  or  less  doesn't  count. 
But,  oh,  you  don't  know  all  that's  happened  since  you 
were  here  last." 

"Do  tell  me,  Winnie,"  I  said.  "You're  so  cold  you 
frighten  me.  Tell  me  about  Stella  and  the  baby." 

"And  about  myself?" 

"Yes,  about  yourself,  Winnie." 

"It's  three  months  since  you've  been  here,  and  the  last 
word  I  had  from  you  was  the  letter  telling  me  you  were 
engaged  to  Wesson.  You  wrote  that  the  day  you  be- 
came engaged  to  him?" 

"Yes,  Winnie,  that  very  day." 

"Are  you  married  yet  ?" 

"No,  Winnie;  Roy  and  I  will  never  marry." 

"So  you've  got  something  to  tell,  too.    It's  broken  off  ?"* 

"Yes." 

"I'm  not  sorry ;  it  looks  as  if  things  are  getting  squared 
up  all  around." 

"Please  begin,  Winnie?" 

"All  right,  I'll  begin.  First  the  baby— there's  not 
much  to  that.  Diphtheria.  She  was  well  this  day — play- 
ing with  me  here  in  this  room — dead  the  next.  We  sat 
up  all  night.  The  doctor  used  some  newfangled  remedy, 
antitoxin,  or  something  or  other,  but  she  was  dead  at 
eleven  o'clock.  Maybe  if  we'd  let  them  take  her  to  the 
hospital  she  would  have  lived ;  maybe  she  wouldn't.  Any- 
way she's  dead."  , 


26o  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"Oh,  Winnie,  I  can't  bear  to  hear  you  talk  like  that." 

"Well,  that's  how  I  feel — what  had  she  to  be  taken 
from  us  for?  What  harm  was  she  doing?  We  were 
happy.  One  might  think  God  doesn't  want  poor  people 
to  be  happy.  But  she's  gone.  The  funeral  was  the  day 
after  she  died — they  wouldn't  let  us  keep  her  a  day  longer. 
Stella  and  Andy  Thorne  rode  to  the  cemetery  together; 
they  rode  back  together ;  they  went  away  together.  Stella 
came  here  alone  two  hours  later  and  showed  the  marriage 
certificate.  She  couldn't  speak,  and  mother  cried  over 
her." 

"And  you,  Winnie?" 

"I  didn't  cry.  I  told  her  if  I'd  been  in  her  place  I 
might  do  the  same,  and  I  kissed  her." 

"You  kissed  her,  Winnie?"  I  cried  in  gladness. 

"She's  my  sister,"  she  replied.  "They're  living  over 
in  Jersey  City.  Thorne  wanted  to  take  her  as  far  as  he 
could  from  me.  Not  that  I  ever  did  anything  to  him. 
He's  got  some  money.  He's  doing  something  in  a  pool- 
room; when  the  horse-racing  shuts  down  for  the  winter 
I  suppose  Stella  will  be  back  here  again.  She  was  here 
yesterday,  and  her  cheek  was  black.  But  she  was  smil- 
ing, and  she  said  she  was  happy.  Maybe  she  was." 

"I  am  sure  she  is  happy,"  I  said. 

"Do  you  know  what  happened  to  Betty  Collins?"  she 
asked. 

"No." 

"She  shot  herself." 

"Winnie!"  I  exclaimed. 

"Yes,  shot  herself.  You  might  have  read  it  in  the 
papers.  Where  were  you  ?  Didn't  you  see  the  pictures  ?" 

"No." 

"Maybe  Mrs.  Hall  kept  the  papers  from  you.  I  told 
Mrs.  Hall  all  about  Betty  and  the  rest  of  them.  I'll  bet 


IN  THE  CURRENT  261 

she  saw.  I'll  bet  old  Wesson  saw,  too,  and  that  he  put 
her  up  to  keeping  the  papers  away.  I  know  what  he  is ; 
he's  smart  and  tricky,  but  he'd  do  better  if  he  was 
honest." 

"But  Betty?"  I  asked  impatiently. 

"Oh,  she  just  dressed  herself  in  her  best  evening  gown 
and  put  on  all  her  jewels  and  lay  down  on  a  couch  with 
a  photograph  of  Roy  Wesson  in  one  hand  and  a  re- 
volver in  the  other.  In  the  morning  her  maid  found  her 
as  if  she  was  asleep,  only  for  a  hole  in  her  temple.  She's 
lucky." 

"Winnie,  Winnie!" 

"I  mean  it.  She's  in  heaven,  if  there's  a  heaven  any- 
where. She  never  hurt  anybody  but  herself,  and  she 
couldn't  help  that — nobody  ever  helped  her.  Betty  loved 
Roy  Wesson  to  the  last,  too;  she  loved  him  as  well  as 
she  could." 

"You  must  not  say  that,  Winnie,"  I  cried. 

"No?  Andrews  soon  threw  her  over,  once  you  were 
out  of  his  net.  When  she  had  time  to  think  she  must 
have  thought  of  Wesson.  If  the  minds  of  us  women 
didn't  run  back  we'd  be  happier.  But  no  matter;  she's 
gone.  Maybe  you've  heard  of  Camilla  Delmont?" 

"No ;  what  happened  to  her,  Winnie  ?" 

"They  kept  that  from  you,  too?  Camilla's  not  dead — 
no  fear  of  her  shooting  herself.  She's  too  wise.  She 
held  up  Andrews.  She  brought  a  breach-of-promise  suit 
against  him.  He  paid  forty  thousand  dollars  to  keep  it 
out  of  court.  She  had  his  letters,  and  she  let  him  off 
easy.  She's  gone  to  what  she  calls  her  home  in  a  village 
in  Jersey.  She  won't  be  there  long." 

"I  never  thought  you  could  be  so  terribly  hard,  Win- 
nie?" 

"I'm  terrible,  am  I ?    You  haven't  heard  about  myself?" 


262  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"How  could  I,  Winnie?" 

"I  might  have  known  that;  you  couldn't.  I  was  en- 
gaged. Yes,  engaged.  And  to  as  fine  a  fellow  as  ever 
walked  this  earth  on  two  feet.  Only  a  boss  plumber,  but 
good  enough  for  me.  I  don't  know  how  it  came  about.  I 
couldn't  help  it.  If  I  hadn't  had  time  to  think  it  all  over 
after  I'd  given  my  promise,  maybe  I'd  be  married  now. 
He  wanted  the  wedding  in  a  hurry.  But  one  night  I 
woke  up,  and  I  lay  there  in  the  dark  and  that  settled  it. 
When  he  came  the  next  night,  I  said:  'Frank,  I  can't 
marry  you.'  He  asked,  'Why  not?'  and  again  I  said: 
'Frank,  I  can't  marry  you.'  He  didn't  ask  another  word 
— Frank  was  a  man.  He  knew  what  I  meant,  but  that 
didn't  stop  him.  He  wound  his  big,  strong  arms  around 
me.  'Do  you  think  I'm  a  saint?'  he  said.  'Come  on, 
marry  me.'  'I  can't  Frank;  I  won't/  I  said.  'You  will,' 
he  said.  'I'm  the  black  one.  You've  been  square  and 
aboveboard;  now  let's  start  with  the  decks  swept  clean.' 
I  held  out,  and  he  got  mad.  He  said  I  was  contrary.  I 
held  out  against  him,  and  he  went  away  mad." 

"He  may  come  back,  Winnie." 

"Maybe,"  said  the  girl.    "Maybe." 

"He  will  come  back ;  he  must  come  back,"  I  said. 

"Supposing  he  does  come  back,,  what  of  that?"  she 
said.  "What  about  Wesson?" 

"It  was  drink,  Winnie." 

"That's  enough.  I  know  all.  Drink!  When  you  say 
that  you  say  everything." 

She  caught  her  hands  in  her  lap  and  fixed  her  eyes  on 
me.  I  thought  I  saw  softness  creep  over  her  face. 

"Why  did  you  send  Frank  away?"  I  asked. 

"Can't  you  guess?"  she  replied,  all  the  harshness  gone 
from  her  voice.  "Can't  you  guess?"  she  repeated,  and 
added:  "Oh,  no,  you  can't" 


IN  THE  CURRENT  263 

"I  can,  Winnie!  It's  because  you  love  somebody  else 
— you  love  Roy!" 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  she  defended.  She  was  silent  for 
a  moment.  Then  tears  welled  in  her  eyes,  which  before 
had  been  so  dry. 

"Yes,  I  love  him ;  I  love  him,"  she  said,  "and  you  love 
him — and  now  where  are  we?" 

There  was  another  silence,  and  I  could  feel  my  heart 
beat.  The  hardness  settled  in  Winnie's  face  again. 

"What  right  have  you  to  come  to  me  ?"  she  demanded. 
"What  did  I  ever  do  to  you  that  you  should  steal  Wes- 
son away  from  me?" 

"Winnie,  Winnie ;  I  didn't  do  that,"  I  said. 

"No;  you  never  thought,  but  that's  what  you  did. 
Women  are  such  simpletons  till  they're  jealous  once.  You 
came  to  me  and  you  confided  in  me  and  it  never  crossed 
your  mind  I  might  be  finding  it  hard  to  keep  from  tear- 
ing you  to  pieces.  What  kind  of  a  fool  are  you?  Do  you 
think  it  was  out  of  charity  I  wanted  to  keep  you  from 
Wesson  when  you  came  like  Smiling  Innocence  into  his 
office  that  day?  What  chance  could  I  have  to  prove  to 
him  there  was  good  in  me  with  you  with  your  doll's  face 
before  him?  And  you  wrote  to  me  and  told  me  you  were 
engaged  to  him — engaged  after  all  that  had  happened; 
after  he'd  tried  to  drag  you  down  as  he  dragged  me  down 
and  left  me  to  fight  my  way  up  again!  You've  got  a 
lot  to  be  thankful  for.  You  may  thank  your  God  you're 
not  a  suicide  like  Betty  or  a  blackmailer  like  Camilla." 

I  cried  in  anguish.  She  waited  until  my  emotion  be- 
gan to  wear  itself  off. 

"Crying  won't  mend  it,"  she  said.  "I  was  as  big  a 
fool  as  you  were.  I  thought  I  could  appeal  to  the  manly 
side  of  him  by  showing  him  my  strength.  My  strength ! 


264  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Think  of  that!  The  fools  we  women  are!  What  we 
flatter  ourselves  we  know  about  men!" 

"Winnie,  Winnie,  are  you  going  to  turn  against  me?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  replied.  "I've  been  asking  myself 
that  question  ever  since  I  met  you  and  I  haven't  been  able 
to  answer  it  yet." 

"You  mustn't  blame  me,  Winnie ;  you  mustn't.  I  didn't 
know." 

She  ran  over  and  caught  me  by  the  shoulders  and  shook 
me. 

"I  don't  blame  you,"  she  said,  "but  I've  often  longed 
to  get  my  hands  on  you." 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  I  avowed.  "You  directed  me  in 
everything." 

"I  directed  you!'  she  exclaimed.  "Oh,  you  don't  see 
yet.  You  don't  see  yet  what  it  was  saved  you.  Where 
would  you  be  now  if  Betty  Collins  hadn't  come  back  that 
day  and  talked  the  truth?" 

"Winnie,  I  see,  I  see!" 

"And  you  say  I  directed  you !  Don't  thank  me ;  thank 
Betty  that's  dead.  It  was  Betty  pulled  you  through,  and 
not  because  she  wanted  to,  but  because  she  wouldn't  let 
somebody  else  pull  you  down  when  she  couldn't  have  a 
hand  in  it  herself.  You've  never  thought  of  it  all  this 
time;  you'd  never  have  thought  of  it  if  I  hadn't  showed 
you.  The  only  difference  between  you  and  Betty  and 
Camilla  and  myself — myself! — is  that  you  weren't  left 
to  find  out  all  the  blackness  of  hell  there's  in  it.  Think 
of  that,  and  don't  think  hard  of  any  other  woman !" 

"I  won't,  Winnie,  never,  never.  But  you  don't  hate 
me,  Winnie?" 

"Oh,  I  tried  to  hate  you,  but  I  couldn't.  I  hated  you 
and  yet  I  liked  you.  Yes,  I  did ;  if  I  had  only  hated  you 
right  along  I  wouldn't  have  been  contradicting  myself 


IN  THE  CURRENT  265 

every  day.  But  how  could  I  hate  you  always — you  like 
a  lamb  thrown  out!  I  didn't  know  what  I  was  doing. 
I  got  old  Wesson  to  working  for  you;  I  got  Mrs.  Hall 
to  working  for  you,  and  all  the  time  when  I  was  trying 
to  hold  you  up  I  was  wishing  down  in  my  heart  you'd 
fall.  All  I've  been  through  hasn't  made  me  know  myself, 
and  maybe  that's  the  only  lucky  thing  about  me." 

"We're  still  friends  then,  Winnie?" 

"Yes,  we're  friends,  and  that's  all  both  of  us  have 
left.  That's  all."  She  reached  out  and  clenched  my  hand 
in  hers.  "Roy's  gone.  He  wasn't  for  me.  He  wasn't 
for  you.  We're  here  now  at  last,  at  last — desolate,  the 
both  of  us.  That's  the  end  it's  come  to." 

I  started  from  my  seat,  and  took  my  stand  before  her. 

"I  won't  hear  you  say  that,  Winnie,"  I  called.  "We're 
not  desolate.  We're  all  the  better  for  what  has  hap- 
pened." I  could  see  a  look  of  amusement  and  surprise  in 
her  face.  "Our  hearts  are  not  empty.  They're  filled  with 
something  more  than  mere  selfish  love.  Do  you  believe 
that,  Winnie?  Mine  is,  and  so  is  yours.  Had  we  been 
weak  we  should  have  gone  down  with  him.  But  we 
were  strong,  Winnie,  we  were  strong.  You  fought  a 
greater  fight  than  I,  but  we've  both  won.  We're  victors, 
Winnie,  victors,  victors!  Winnie,  Winnie,  can  you  be- 
lieve, I  feel  like  singing  aloud  in  joy?  For  the  first  time 
I  know  myself,  I  know  my  strength;  and  you  know 
yourself,  and  you  know  your  strength ;  and  that's  all  there 
is  to  know.  Up,  Winnie;  up,  Winnie,  and  we'll  live! 
Live,  live,  live!  We've  just  begun  to  live!  We've  just 
begun  to  know  what  it  is  to  live!" 

She  smiled  wistfully  at  me. 

"I've  been  expecting  something  like  that  from  you  this 
long,  long  time — these  months  and  months  and  months," 


266  IN  THE  CURRENT 

she  said.  "It's  true  every  word  of  it — true  for  you.  But 
for  me,  Frizzie — well,  you  haven't  paid  the  price  I  paid." 

"I  won't  listen,  Winnie,"  I  insisted,  "I  won't." 

She  arose  slowly  and  took  me  affectionately  by  the  arm. 

"What's  the  use  in  talking  more  about  it?"  she  said. 
"Come,  Frizzie,  let  us  go  back  to  mother,  who  thinks  she's 
burdened  with  the  cares  of  the  world." 

"I  will  go  with  you,  Winnie,"  I  said.  And  we  went 
to  the  kitchen  hand  in  hand,  and,  strange  as  it  may  seem, 
soon  all  three  of  us  were  laughing  together. 

Blessed  laughter,  say  I,  blessed  laughter! 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

FROM  Winnie's  I  went  straight  to  a  telegraph  office 
and  sent  a  message  to  father.  I  asked  him  to  come  to  me, 
and  then  I  went  home  to  Mrs.  Hall's  and  to  bed  in  a  spirit 
of  complete,  wonderful  content.  At  breakfast  I  told  Mrs. 
Hall.  She  almost  started  from  her  chair  in  sudden  excite- 
ment, but  quickly  controlled  herself  and  settled  down 
quietly  again.  She  was  strangely  silent.  I  confessed  I 
was  rilled  with  a  desire  to  return  to  Covey. 

"That  was  inevitable  from  the  start,  Frizzie,"  said  Mrs. 
Hall,  and  lapsed  again  in  silence. 

I  made  another  effort  to  arouse  her. 

"Do  you  know  my  most  vivid  impression  of  New  York, 
Mrs.  Hall?"  I  asked. 

"No,"  was  her  only  response. 

"It's  a  city  of  fat  women  and  fat  dogs,  that's  what  New 
York  is,"  I  said,  but  Mrs.  Hall  hardly  seemed  to  hear. 

Father  arrived  at  three  o'clock.  I  waited  in  the  parlor, 
and  an  odd  impulse  led  me  to  stand  in  the  exact  spot  where 
Mrs.  Hall  had  placed  me  for  the  coming  of  Mrs.  Wesson. 
There  was  little  change  apparent  in  him.  There  was  a  lit- 
tle more  white  at  his  temples,  a  little  more  sharpness  to  his 
stern,  unyielding  features,  and  that  was  all.  He  was  mas- 
ter of  himself  as  always ;  cool,  imperturbable,  conceding  no 
emotion  even  in  the  presence  once  more  of  his  only  child. 
He  was  the  first  to  speak.  I  had  thought  of  many  things  to 
say,  but  his  approach  almost  froze  me.  It  seemed  as  if  the 
old  hostility,  the  old  pulling  at  cross-purposes,  still  re- 
mained. 

367 


268  IN  THE  CURRENT 

"You  have  returned  from  the  dead,  Frizzie,"  he  said; 
and  the  unexpectedness  and  shock  of  these  opening  words 
shook  me  out  of  the  dangerous,  destructive  state  of  feel- 
ing and  mind. 

I  went  straight  to  him,  and,  although  he  tried  to  hold 
himself  aloof,  put  my  hands  on  his  shoulders  and  forced 
him  down  until  I  kissed  him.  I  led  him  to  a  chair  and 
forced  him  into  it.  I  drew  a  chair  close  to  him,  and  in 
joyous  exhilaration  I  spoke  out  of  the  fulness  of  my  heart. 

"I  have  not  returned  from  the  dead,  father ;  instead  of 
that,  I  have  found  the  land  of  the  living ;  and  I  live  there, 
and  I  have  sent  for  you  to  come  and  live  with  me !  Father, 
I  have  learned  the  secret  of  our  unrest.  I  have  learned 
what  it  was  drove  us  apart  and  now  draws  us  together. 
Do  you  believe  in  Beauty,  father  ?  Oh,  you  must  believe, 
for  I  believe !  You  will  join  in  the  quest  of  Beauty  with 
me?  I  am  going  back  to  Covey.  There's  where  Beauty 
lies  for  me  now.  Do  you  realize  what  I  am  saying,  father  ? 
I  am  not  coming  back  carried  on  my  shield,  but  bearing 
it  aloft  triumphantly,  as  you  knew  I  would." 

"Is  your  Beauty  selfishness  ?"  asked  my  father. 

"No,  no ;  it  is  not  that,"  I  protested.  "My  Beauty  is  the 
expression  of  all  my  hopes  and  fears,  of  all  my  aims  and 
all  my  struggles — the  expression  of  my  very  self,  father! 
My  Beauty  is  the  glory  of  content  and  of  discontent ;  it  is 
everything  I  have,  everything  I  can  hope  to  have.  My 
Beauty,  father,  is  my  religion,  because  I  believe  it  is  God 
Himself.  I  see  my  Beauty,  father,  as  something  grand  and 
noble  and  sublime ;  something  that  lifts  me  and  the  earth 
with  me  to  the  gates  of  paradise.  Oh,  father,  you  must 
think  as  I  think  and  feel  as  I  feel,  and  join  with  me  in  the 
quest  for  Beauty — the  quest  in  which  the  whole  world  is 
engaged  without  being  conscious  of  it.  You  know  that. 
It's  what  you  have  been  searching  for  in  Covey  all  these 


IN  THE  CURRENT  269 

years.  It's  what  I  was  searching  for  when  I  left  you  and 
left  Norman.  Can't  you  see,  father?  Can't  you  realize 
there  was  another  power  impelled  me  than  myself  ?  Can't 
you  see  I  was  driven  by  a  law  higher  than  our  law  ?" 

"You  had  Beauty  offered  to  you  and  you  rejected  it," 
said  my  father  coldly. 

"Oh,  father,  can  you  still  say  that  ?"  I  cried  in  poignant 
grief. 

"I  still  say  it,"  he  replied.  "I  still  find  you  a  prey  to 
illusions  as  when  you  assumed  to  dictate  to  those  who 
loved  you  and  thought  only  of  your  happiness." 

"Don't  you  see  I  am  different,  father?"  I  asked  in  dis- 
tress. "Won't  you  ask  me  to  come  back ;  won't  you  accept 
my  offer ;  won't  you  let  me  at  least  be  a  real  daughter  to 
you;  won't  you  stand  with  me  on  an  equal  footing  and 
strive  for  the  Beauty  of  life ;  won't  I  learn  from  you  and 
won't  you  learn  from  me?" 

"I  am  afraid  your  head  is  filled  with  theories,  Frizzie," 
he  said  impassively. 

"Don't  you  comprehend,  father,  that  if  I  ever  go  back 
it  never,  never  can  be  the  same  as  it  was  long  ago?" 

"I  comprehend  that  fully,"  he  said.  "I  comprehend  it 
only  too  well." 

"Then  I  can  never  go,"  I  cried.  "I  won't  ask  you  to 
help  me  carry  my  shield.  I  will  go  on  the  quest  alone. 
I  will  go  alone,  father,  and  leave  you  behind  again  with 
all  your  conventions." 

"I  have  not  asked  you  what  you  have  been  doing,"  he 
said.  "You  have  not  asked  about  me  or  about  Norman?" 

"It  is  too  late  for  that  now,"  I  replied.  "I  have  crossed 
the  bridge  and  the  bridge  is  down,  and  we  stand  on  oppo- 
site sides  of  the  chasm." 

"Be  it  so,"  said  my  father  sternly ;  and  the  remembrance 
came  to  me  of  his  intonation  as  he  used  to  read  the  First 


270  IN  THE  CURRENT 

Lesson  and  the  Second  Lesson.  He  arose  and  walked  with 
determined  step  toward  the  door.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
Mrs.  Hall  coming  down  the  stairs.  Father  saw  her,  and 
drew  back  into  the  room,  totally  oblivious  of  my  presence. 

Mrs.  Hall  came  in  very  softly,  and  with  a  look  of  in- 
effable tenderness  on  her  face.  Her  head  was  slightly 
turned  from  me,  and  I  saw  a  rose  red  and  soft  against 
the  gray  and  brown  of  her  hair.  She  must  have  taken 
in  the  situation  at  a  glance,  for  she  said : 

"Charles,  you  are  not  going  to  deny  Frizzie,  are  you  ?" 

"You  have  taken  my  daughter  and  saved  her  for  me," 
exclaimed  father.  "You!  You!" 

"Yes,  Charles,  I  have  done  that — if  you  think  that 
Frizzie  required  saving." 

"It's  you — you,  Alice,  after  all  these  years!" 

I  felt  I  was  an  intruder  there.  I  tiptoed  without  a  sound 
out  of  the  room.  I  went  half-way  up  the  stairs  and  sank 
on  a  step,  and  thought  of  the  face  of  the  girl  framed  in 
gold.  It  seemed  to  me  I  was  living  in  other  days.  I 
thought  that  while  the  world  might  grow  old  Romance 
would  remain  ever  young  and  in  bloom.  I  knew  then  that 
with  me  memory  would  become  a  sacred  thing,  and  that 
wherever  my  footsteps  led  surely  I  had  something  richer 
and  sweeter  than  material  happiness. 

I  slipped  back  to  the  room  at  the  low  call  of  Mrs.  Hall. 
Father  was  standing  with  his  back  to  me,  gazing  up  at  the 
girl's  portrait.  Mrs.  Hall  guided  me  to  his  side,  and  I  saw 
that  all  the  harshness  and  austerity  had  gone  from  him. 

"Alice  Grey!  Alice  Grey!"  said  my  father  to  himself, 
as  if  speaking  across  the  years.  "Alice!  Alice!"  he 
added,  and  turned  to  me.  "Ah,  Frizzie,  I  fear  it  is  not  for 
me  to  learn  from  you  or  for  you  to  learn  from  me,  but 
for  both  of  us  to  learn  from  Mrs.  Hall." 

"Father,  Mrs.  Hall  has  taught  me  everything." 


IN  THE  CURRENT  271 

"So  she  has,  Frizzie,  even  to  filling  your  head  with  all 
those  Beauty  fancies,  and  beautiful  fancies  they  are!" 

"You  think  so,  father?  Oh,  I  am  so  happy!"  I  cried; 
and  felt  Mrs.  Hall's  arm  go  around  me. 

"We  shall  go  back  to  Covey  together,  Frizzie." 

"Only  together,  father  ?" 

I  glanced  at  Mrs.  Hall  and  saw  red  suffuse  her  cheeks. 

"Together,  Frizzie,"  said  father,  but  I  guessed  his  em- 
phasis was  more  assumed  than  real.  "We  shall  go  to 
Covey  and  we  shall  see  if  we  cannot  find  that  wonderful, 
wonderful  thing  you  call  Beauty.  But  we  won't  go  far — 
for  I  have  found  it,  Frizzie!" 

"You  have,  father?"  I  cried,  rejoicing. 

"I  have  found  it  with  the  help  of  Mrs.  Hall  and  you,  my 
daughter.  I  had  crushed  Beauty  out  of  my  life.  When 
the  girl  in  the  picture  died ;  when  another  girl  died — your 
mother,  Frizzie — I  forgot  youth  and  youth's  hope  and 
youth's  forgiveness  and  wrapt  myself  up  in  a  cold  religion. 
We  shall  go  back  together,  Frizzie,  and  in  our  remem- 
brances our  hearts  shall  be  as  big  as  the  world — as  big  as 
the  universe.  I  will  preach  a  new  religion — the  religion 
that  where  there  is  Beauty  there  also  is  heaven,  and  that 
heaven  is  in  all  of  us  if  we  will  only  see!  That  is  your 
Beauty,  Frizzie?" 

"It  is,  father,"  I  cried,  "but — but  the  girl  in  the  picture 
is  not  dead." 

"She  will  never  die,"  said  my  father  gravely.  A  gleam 
of  humor  showed  in  his  eyes.  "But  you  must  understand, 
Frizzie,  she  is  dead  to  all  save  a  very,  very  few.  Isn't 
that  so,  Mrs.  Hall  ?"  he  asked,  raising  his  voice. 

"Only  three  know  she  is  alive,"  answered  Mrs.  Hall 
bravely,  but  with  a  tell-tale  little  sigh. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

So  HERE  we  are,  you  and  I,  ready  for  the  parting.  I 
face  it  sadly*  Not  that  I  shrink  from  the  rough  breaking 
of  ties,  but  because  I  fear  you  will  go  disappointed  at 
the  manner  of  girl  I  am.  Well,  I  can  only  say,  I  can- 
not help  it;  I  cannot  help  myself. 

If  it  was  weakness  brought  me  back  to  Covey,  I  can't 
help  that.  If  it  was  absurd,  downright  silliness,  I  can't 
help  that.  If  all  my  thoughts  of  a  world  transformed  into 
Beauty  were  vain  and  profitless  and  sheer  nonsense,  I 
can't  help  that.  There  are  so  few  things  we  can  help! 
What  is  it  we  are  permitted  to  do  of  our  own  free  will? 
I'm  sure  I  don't  know.  Speaking  only  for  myself,  I  must 
confess  I'll  never  speak  of  independence  again. 

Oh,  the  independent  girl  I  have  been!  You  know — 
you  know  the  way  I've  ebbed  and  flowed  in  humanity's 
tide.  I  can't  imagine  how  you  find  the  world,  but  for 
myself — well,  I  shall  only  proclaim  that  hard  as  I  tried 
I  couldn't  sail  my  ship  single-handed.  I  couldn't  put  out 
from  port  without  a  crew,  and  whether  I  would  or  not 
the  crew  recruited  itself,  and  trimmed  my  sails  and  took 
the  rudder  out  of  my  hands  and  sailed  my  ship  for  me! 
What  I've  learned  on  my  voyaging  I  hardly  know.  I 
thought  I  knew,  but  reflection  only  increases  the  won- 
der and  perplexity  of  it  all.  What's  life  ?  My  friend,  my 
friend,  what  is  it? 

But  I'm  content.  Yes,  I'm  content.  I  sing  it  out;  I 
go  to  my  knoll  and  send  my  shout,  "I'm  content!" 

272 


IN  THE  CURRENT  273 

traveling  to  the  ends  of  the  earth,  and  the  echo  comes 
back  to  me  swelled  a  thousandfold.  It  has  gathered 
all  this  volume  on  the  way,  and  I  wonder  why  it  has  not 
fallen  and  spent  itself  out  there  and  left  me  lonely  as  of 
old.  Oh,  when  I  go  out  there  to  my  knoll  now,  I  hear 
bells  ringing  joyously,  and  voices  come  and  whisper 
sweetly  in  my  ears! 

It  seems  as  if  I  only  had  slipped  away  for  a  day,  and 
a  day  taught  me,  and  I  have  returned  to  dream  other 
dreams.  Other  dreams?  Always,  always,  dreams!  Six 
months  have  flown  since  father  came  to  Mrs.  Hall's,  and 
at  thought  of  father  and  Mrs.  Hall  I  feel  very,  very  in- 
significant. I  feel  chastened  when  I  think  of  them;  I 
feel  sorry  for  the  selfish  vanity  of  my  youth.  What's 
been  my  experience  ?  I  haven't  nursed  a  wounded  heart 
for  twenty  years,  but,  here,  here!  rejoice  with  me.  Re- 
joice with  father  and  with  Mrs.  Hall,  for  one  day  soon — 
oh,  I  won't  be  a  tattler! 

I've  not  met  Mrs.  Clark;  I've  not  met  Norman  yet. 
But  I've  met  Mr.  Clark — the  dear  old  man,  he  almost 
cried  over  me.  Mother  Ann  is  as  fussy  as  if  the  joy  of 
the  reunion  will  last  forever.  She  comes  and  sits  beside 
me  and  sews  and  hums  while  I  pore  over  these  pages  in 
my  room.  My  room?  Not  a  thing  changed;  all  the 
same  as  when  I  went  away ;  and  should  you  happen  along 
some  day,  look  up  and  you  will  see  me  in  the  window 
gazing  far  across  the  treetops  upon  the  Atlantic. 

I  have  not  heard  from  Roy.  Mr.  Wesson  still  is  silent. 
Mrs.  Hall  has  not  once  spoken  Roy's  name.  All  that 
reaches  me  is  an  occasional  letter  from  Winnie,  and  she 
irritates  me.  Why  does  she  not  mention  Frank?  She 
owes  me  that  much.  But  there  is  no  longer  gloom  in  her 
letters,  and  that  may  mean  something. 

Here  then  I  sit  at  my  little  mahogany  desk  and  write 


274  IN  THE  CURRENT 

and  write  and  write!  Why  do  I  do  it?  Let  me  see. 
Shall  I  make  one  more  confession?  That  I  will,  because 
the  mischief  will  rise  in  me.  Long,  long  ago  when  the 
moon  was  out  of  sight  and  the  night  was  dark  and  only 
one  star  shone  out,  I  addressed  myself  to  that  lone  star. 
That  was  when  I  was  young  enough  to  think  I  was  a 
poet,  and  I  wrote  these  lines  and  sent  them  to  "Our 
Readers'  Corner"  in  a  magazine: 

O,  Star!  who  knowest  what  thou  art? 
Who  can  on  earth  thy  story  read? 
What  matchless  worth,  what  utter  dross, 
Thy  light  conceals? 

My  reward  was  a  gentle  intimation  I  was  mad,  and  all 
this  I've  written  is  my  revenge.  I'm  mad  still!  But 
what  matter?  Here  I  sit  at  my  little  mahogany  desk, 
and  write  and  write  and  write !  You  remember  my  little 
mahogany  desk?  Didn't  I  make  a  slip  about  it  some- 
where ?  Oh,  yes  I  did ;  but  I'll  not  bother  you  any  longer 
with  trifles. 

It's  very  quiet  here  and  very  peaceful.  Should  I  get 
up  and  go  into  the  hall  I'd  see  father  at  his  desk  writing 
his  sermon  for  next  Sunday;  should  he  look  up  and  see 
me  he'd  greet  me  with  a  smile  filled  with  tender  love. 
But  I  won't  disturb  him.  I  prefer  to  sit  and  dream.  I 
see  the  little  globe  which  my  fancy  has  placed  on  its 
wire  pedestal  on  my  table,  and  I  dream  on.  My  gaze 
wanders  away,  and  the  globe  fades  from  my  mind.  I 
look  out  of  the  window,  and  what  do  I  see?  Dream- 
ing, dreaming!  Something  rises  between  me  and  my 
view  out  over  the  tree-tops  and  upon  the  sea.  Can  it  be 
the  face  of  Norman? 

Away  with  this  pen !    I'd  rather  dream  than  write. 


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